Chapter Twenty
Knowing that Saffi, Atlas, and Eli had known one another for several years was one thing, but to witness it was something else altogether.
Dimple found it was much easier to pinpoint Atlas and Eli’s bond.
It was apparent in the way they anticipated each other’s needs, passing over documents without having to ask—without even having to look.
There were several instances when Dimple had been certain the two of them were on a collision course, only for them to slide past unobstructed, a hand clapping over the other’s shoulder in a quick greeting to confirm that, yes, they had known the other was there the entire time.
It was slightly more challenging, however, to pinpoint where Saffi came into the picture.
At first, Dimple had attributed her years abroad to the apparent chasm between her and her coworkers.
But then she’d witnessed Eli handing his phone over to Saffi, his parents on the other end of the line.
And how eerily similar Saffi’s and Atlas’s thought processes were at times.
There was also the mirroring: three pairs of legs crossed at the exact same time, three nods of approval for the price of one. A casual, almost frosty intimacy.
There was also the matter of the case. Dimple had poked and prodded, but nothing.
It truly seemed that Atlas and Eli had no knowledge that Dimple herself was a suspect.
Either that or they were far greater actors than even she.
It almost felt like a personal affront that Saffi had been able to keep up with Dimple with one arm tied behind her back.
But if no one except Saffi knew of her guilt, then Dimple had nothing holding her back from killing her.
When it was done and over with, she could mourn alongside an Atlas and Eli who were none the wiser.
She’d wrongly assumed that Saffi wouldn’t be as careless as her coworkers had been.
It might’ve been disappointing if she hadn’t been expecting it.
Of course Saffi could only keep up with her for so long.
While Dimple didn’t see much of Saffi when she was in the office, the men were fascinating company when it came down to it. Where trying to glean information from Saffi was a lot like interrogating a brick wall, they were much more malleable.
Eli kept her at arm’s length, but he was at least kind and had something of substance to offer. Similar to acting, confidence was key in undercover work. He taught her how to orchestrate a situation to her liking—that causing a scene could sometimes work to divert attention from herself.
“If you need a reason to speak to someone, the easiest way is to bump into them,” he’d told her. “Literally. Spill a drink or, better yet, make them spill a drink on you. It also works if you need a distraction.”
Dimple found herself using his advice in auditions as well. Treating every scene like the conductor of a symphony. She must’ve been doing something right, given she’d made it through several rounds already.
Atlas, however, was helpful in another way. He stammered through explanations of pressure points that could bring a man to his knees and methods to break out of holds, but Dimple liked him for the opportunity he begot.
It presented itself in the constant tripping over air in Dimple’s presence.
When she would try to help him clean up his messes, he’d implore her to stay put and that he didn’t want her to get dirty.
When she’d try to help him up, he’d refuse her hand and scramble to his feet with red ears. She’d never been treated so preciously.
Learning the dynamic at Andino and Taylor Private Eye and, more importantly, Dimple’s place in it was a precarious thing. As little as she saw of her, Dimple knew Saffi was watching her like a hawk. As a precaution, she didn’t dare try anything before now.
Eight weeks after being released from the hospital, the wrist brace finally came off. Dimple felt thankful for it as the weather grew steadily warmer. And just in time for the start of Insomnia’s promotional season.
Still buzzing from a magazine interview earlier that day, Dimple and Atlas walked side by side to the meeting room.
It had become something almost like her office, given how much time she spent there.
The hallway leading up to it wasn’t a very long one, revealing four more offices whose occupants she’d determined, thanks to her constant presence.
All except for the one at the end of the hall left their door open.
That one could belong to no one but Saffi.
Atlas, realizing Dimple had fallen behind, turned to her in confusion. “Something wrong?” he asked. “Do you need a break? Water?”
Dimple laughed. “I’ve only just arrived.”
Atlas’s ears reddened. It was that easy.
“Actually, I was hoping for a change of scenery,” she suggested.
Atlas contemplated it. “We could go to the break room?”
Dimple shook her head apologetically. “The lights in there give me a migraine. Sorry, I don’t mean to be difficult. Let’s go to the meeting room as usual.” She took one step in that direction before Atlas cut her off.
“We could go to my office?” he suggested. “I get plenty of natural light in there.”
Almost too easy.
Dimple let her eyes grow wide. “Really? Are you sure that’s all right?” When he nodded in confirmation, she beamed. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
He was already walking away and Dimple hurried after his long strides. As she passed Eli’s office, he gave her a small wave, which Dimple returned. It was a good thing Saffi couldn’t see, though, because she’d certainly clock that Dimple was up to something.
Long after Dimple stepped into Atlas’s office, he lingered awkwardly in the corner, as though afraid she would bite.
She took the opportunity to look around, hands clasped innocently behind her back.
It was the same layout as the others Dimple had caught brief glimpses of.
Desk at the center, armchairs for guests, plastic potted plants in the empty corners.
She wondered if Saffi’s looked the same. Somehow, she doubted it.
She scanned bookshelves of textbooks, walls of diplomas and certifications, and countless photographs, senses alert for anything of relevance. Atlas seemed to thrive on organized chaos, with files and books scattered all over the place and memos stuck to the wall at random.
“Where is this from?” Dimple asked, fingertip tracing a picture of Atlas and Eli with a mountain range in the background.
“Colorado,” he said, clearing his throat.
The question seemed to cut through the tension and Atlas took a step closer.
He launched into a story about how he’d sprained a ligament while skiing not long after the picture was taken.
Dimple nodded like she was listening and tried not to think of the phantom twinge in her own wrist. Sometimes when she moved too quickly, she still froze in anticipation of pain that would never come.
With her back to him, Dimple ensured Atlas had no idea she couldn’t care less for his photographs.
Her eyes were glued to the notes he’d scribbled on his whiteboard.
In between doodles of cacti and palm trees, she could make out Insomnia’s production schedule and names of people who’d worked on the film.
Producers, writers, even extras. Several were crossed out.
So she wasn’t the only suspect. Dimple made a mental note of every person on the list, vowing to look into them all when she went home later that day.
Her unofficial reconnaissance mission came to a staggering halt when Dimple spotted a familiar paper pinned to the corner of the board.
Jagged edges, written on by a pen nearly out of ink.
She plucked it from its place and held it up to the sunlight, her fingers tracing the familiar loops of the first and only autograph she’d ever been commissioned.
“You kept it,” she said.
“Of course,” Atlas replied, as though it were that simple. That was how everything seemed to be with him—simple.
“This was the first autograph I’ve ever given.”
When she turned to look at him, Atlas seemed taken aback. “Really?”
“Is it so surprising?”
“Well, yeah. You’re an amazing actress.”
Dimple twisted the words in her mind, attempting to make sense of them. “What’s your favorite movie of mine?” she asked eventually.
“Horrorville 3,” he said without missing a beat. “You deserve an Oscar for that performance, and I’m not just saying that.”
Dimple found herself at a loss for words. He couldn’t be serious. Not even she could watch that movie without breaking into hives. It was a disgrace to cinema. Dimple didn’t even like to say the title out loud for fear of inviting demons into her home.
But Atlas’s expression was open and earnest. There were no signs of jest or malintent. Dimple felt incredibly powerful, as though being viewed through a camera lens.
“You truly believe that?”
“It’s one of my favorite movies of all time.
The terrible script and cinematography only made your performance more impressive.
I could tell the other actors had given up, but not you.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone deliver lines like that.
” Atlas spoke so quickly, many of his sentences sounded like one word.
He was breathless by the end. And then he kept going.
“My mom and I are the only ones in my family who like old Hollywood films. We used to watch them all the time when I was younger, before my parents divorced. I don’t know what it is, but your acting reminds me of that. ”
Dimple let out a shaky breath to collect herself. She’d liked to imagine she would’ve been the same, had she gotten the chance to meet her mother. They’d had the same taste in films as well.