Chapter Twenty-One
The end of May marked four months in America, four months of taking up residence in her office at Andino and Taylor Private Eye, and Saffi had no choice but to face the glaring issue that was her family.
She hadn’t expected Dimple Kapoor to run circles around her to this extent.
This was the longest she’d stayed in one place in five years, not that she missed constantly moving from hotel to hotel as the job called for.
If she didn’t contact her family soon, they’d begin to worry.
The rational thing to do would be to make the call and explain everything.
So, Saffi picked up the phone—and called in a favor from a contact in France.
Her parents would get a postcard from Paris in the upcoming week and hopefully that would buy her enough time to solve this case and get the hell out of America again.
Just like that, a favor wasted. And on a fifty-cent piece of paper, no less.
Her whole life she’d been working to make her parents proud. She’d come so close five years ago, only for one mistake to ruin it all. And now she never would.
For all her research, Saffi had found nothing.
Nothing not in the sense that Dimple Kapoor lived a very boring, dull life from birth until now, but nothing in the sense that Dimple Kapoor didn’t even seem to exist prior to her college enrollment.
Of the dozens of photos and articles of her online, all of them were recent.
Every time Saffi thought she was nearing a conclusion, something like this would happen to remind her that Kapoor was anything but predictable.
It didn’t matter how many Dimples, Kapoors, and Dimple Kapoors Saffi had looked into, there was no passport, no driver’s license, not so much as a yearbook photo before eight years ago.
But that had to be impossible. There was no way Kapoor would’ve been allowed to enroll in college without a proper background check and a high school transcript.
Or at least her GED. Regardless, Saffi couldn’t find any trace of her.
Until now.
It took meandering through the online archives of every California valedictorian the same year Kapoor would’ve graduated high school to finally find her. A much younger, much more timid version of Dimple Kapoor.
Her name, though, was Anya.
—
Saffi had been pouring herself a celebratory drink when Dimple Kapoor herself waltzed into her office. It was the first time the actress had actively sought out her company, so it left her suspicious.
Saffi moved to unroll her sleeves and put her jacket back on, but Kapoor was quicker. “Leave it,” she said.
Struck by the unexpected nature of the request, Saffi froze, inadvertently obeying.
Kapoor’s attention dropped to the whiskey. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you willingly take a break before.”
“I could say the same about you.”
With her came a strange scent that Saffi couldn’t place. There was the sweet honey that seemed to follow Kapoor everywhere she went, but this time there were notes of burnt plastic.
And then there was the exposed skin of Kapoor’s wrist. Saffi remembered the scratchy feel of the brace and wondered what the skin felt like underneath.
Would she feel Kapoor’s pulse thrumming with the beat of every lie?
Saffi reached out on impulse, but her mind warned her to go slow.
Her grip on Kapoor’s wrist was loose and while she tensed, she didn’t pull away.
Saffi’s thumb swiped across smooth, unmarred skin.
Kapoor must’ve been made of fire because every point of contact burned.
“You got the brace removed,” Saffi said. Her voice sounded far away.
What was she doing?
Saffi dropped her wrist, but too late. It was as though she’d become drunk by the act of pouring alcohol alone.
She half expected there to be a mark left behind when she looked down at her palm.
There was nothing but a burning sensation.
Curling her hand into a fist, Saffi tried to remind herself why, exactly, playing with fire was so dangerous.
“You’d know that if you visited me at all. I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me.” Kapoor was pouting, an overdramatized version of it. If anything, Saffi had been letting her stew, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been keeping watch over her.
It was then that Saffi was drawn to the white bandage wrapped around her forearm. “What’s that?”
Kapoor turned away. Saffi wanted to reach out again and pull the arm free to study, but she didn’t. Just to prove she hadn’t completely lost it. Instead of slipping into the armchair, Kapoor sat directly on Saffi’s desk, giving a clear view of her thigh as her dress rode up.
The next time their gazes met, Kapoor seemed amused. She was too observant. That was supposed to be Saffi’s job. “Are you going to inquire about all my injuries? Should I tell you about the papercut I got this morning?”
It was strange but not entirely out of character for the ever-secretive, ever-elusive Dimple Kapoor.
Saffi filed the information away for later and lifted her glass of whiskey.
She hadn’t touched the stuff since she’d arrived in California despite how much Andino and Taylor begged her to go out with them, so this was long overdue.
Glass pressing against her lips, Saffi made inadvertent eye contact with Kapoor as she began to tip it back. The actress was staring at her, tracking every move. She would’ve appeared perfectly at ease, her shoulders relaxed and posture comfortable, had it not been for the slight tick in her jaw.
Saffi thought about what she’d read regarding Anya Kapoor and paused. Dropping the untouched glass to her lap, she traced the rim consideringly.
“Were your aunt and uncle alcoholics?” It hadn’t been officially stated in the reports, but it would make a lot of sense.
The way Kapoor momentarily stilled was confirmation enough, even if it was gone in the next second. Her pleasant expression hadn’t budged. It was terrifying how good an actress she was. Except Kapoor’s magnum opus wasn’t any of the work she’d done on-screen—it was the performance of her life.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Kapoor said.
“You don’t have to lie about everything,” Saffi replied dryly.
“I don’t.” Lie.
“Getting me drunk won’t make it any easier to kill me.” Saffi attempted to joke, but it fell flat.
“I would never harm you.” Lie, again. “You fascinate me too much.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be smart. We are in a PI agency.”
“There’s also the factor of me not being a killer.”
“I wonder if you’ll be saying the same thing when I catch you red-handed.
” Saffi dropped the whiskey straight into the plastic bin beside her desk, glass and all.
Some of it splashed onto the floor. Kapoor watched, at first in disbelief, and then, slowly, her mouth twisted into something wild and dangerous.
Something pleased. And despite herself, Saffi felt a sense of accomplishment.
“You look especially smug lately,” Saffi said. “Find something you were looking for? Should I be concerned?”
She was curious to test just how good of a liar Dimple Kapoor was. Thanks to Martinez, she already knew that Kapoor had figured out who the other suspects in this case were. And soon, the actress would be making her next move. Saffi was prepared.
“Of course not.” Kapoor waved off her concerns. “You seem to be in a rather celebratory mood, though. Should I be concerned?”
Denial, deflection, and redirection. Impressive work. Saffi couldn’t have done it better herself. Was this something Kapoor had practiced like her acting or did it come as naturally as breathing?
Saffi would bite—for now, at least. Let Kapoor think she had the upper hand.
“Of course not,” Saffi echoed. “Kitchen fires are pretty common, after all. Not particularly unbelievable when it comes to careless drunkards like your aunt and uncle.”
Kapoor didn’t so much as flinch. She did, however, pull something free from the folds of her dress—a lighter—and held it loosely in her right hand.
“I suppose so,” she said, flicking the flame to life.
Saffi couldn’t help it, she laughed. Even backed into a corner, Kapoor never failed to surprise her.
“Lucky Anya was at school when it happened,” Saffi said.
“One of the few times luck favored her, I’m afraid.”
Kapoor was transfixed with the flame. Orange danced in her irises, melting the dark brown into a molten gold. For a moment, there was the irrational fear that the fire would consume her, but then Kapoor blinked out of her trance and the flame died out.
“What did they do to you?” Saffi asked. What made you want to kill them?
“It will not help you with your case.”
Regardless, Saffi wanted to know. If she understood Kapoor better, maybe then she could finally file her away into the appropriate box and move on. “Tell me anyway.”
“It makes no difference. They’re gone.”
“You’re not.”
The words seemed to surprise Kapoor. Neither of them spoke for a moment, the newscaster’s voice indistinct in the background.
“Tell me why you hate California so much,” Kapoor said.
Now it was Saffi’s turn to go still. Again with the surprises. It was clear Kapoor hadn’t been expecting an answer because she made to stand, but Saffi spoke first.
“It’s not California. It’s America,” she said distantly. It was a fair exchange, trading one stalemate for another. She opened her mouth, intending to continue, but the words were stuck in her throat. It was then that she realized she’d never actually told this story out loud before.
Kapoor’s eyes held nothing but utter and complete understanding. Of course. If there was anyone who could empathize, it would be her. If she were even capable of empathy, that was.
“Not today,” Kapoor said.
“Not today,” Saffi agreed, and tried not to let the relief show in her face.
Her line of work had taught her that not everyone deserved to be mourned. Sometimes, those people just so happened to be responsible for children. Maybe Kapoor’s guardians were like that. Or maybe they were just an excuse. Maybe Kapoor had always been as fucked-up as she was now.
“I never would’ve taken you for an Anya,” Saffi muttered.
“Don’t think you can start calling me that now.” It was a clear warning.
“Wasn’t planning on it, Kapoor.”
“Well, don’t call me that either,” Kapoor said thoughtfully. “I think we’re well past first-name basis by now, are we not?”
Saffi almost protested before she noticed the mirth in Kapoor’s—in Dimple’s expression. As though they were both in on the same joke. It left her restless. Her hands itched to do something other than sit here so placidly. Saffi tugged open several desk drawers, digging through them.
“Looking for something?”
“I know I have one somewhere—here.” She lifted a single wax candle from her bottommost drawer.
The emergency drawer, as Eli liked to call it. Inside were matches, a first-aid kit, a flashlight, and the like. Saffi held the sad, beige thing to Dimple, who accepted it with visible confusion.
“What’s this for?”
“Happy Birthday,” Saffi said.
She only knew three birthdays off the top of her head: Andino’s, Taylor’s, and her own.
Now, inadvertently, she would be adding Dimple Kapoor’s to the mix.
May twenty-eighth. That she’d found Anya Kapoor’s birth certificate on her birthday itself felt like a cosmic coincidence—if Saffi were inclined to believe in such things.
Dimple seemed at a loss for words. She stared down at the candle as though it was the world’s most confounding puzzle. Saffi felt a little ridiculous now, watching her flounder.
“Go on, light it. I know you want to, you damn pyro.”
For whatever reason, Dimple played along. She lit the candle and closed her eyes, as though making a wish, before blowing it out.
The corners of Saffi’s mouth tugged upward. “What did you wish for?”
Dimple gave her a sly look. “I can’t tell you or it won’t come true.”
Saffi had been about to retort when something on the TV caught her attention.
It shouldn’t have registered in her preoccupied mind, but some subconscious part of her must’ve been paying attention—and it was a good thing she was.
The reporter said a familiar name and Saffi stood abruptly, increasing the volume.
“—warrant out for the arrest of the lead in the upcoming film Insomnia. Law enforcement is seeking—”
Saffi inhaled sharply. Dimple shot to her feet in her peripheral.
Impossible. No one had ever solved a case faster than her.
Nobody was faster than her, period. No matter rain or shine, weekday or holiday, if Saffi wasn’t awake before the sun, then she’d already fallen behind.
Her father had always said that the sleeping hours were the ones most often wasted.
First, she’d slept through the news of Dimple’s fall and now this. Clearly, he’d been right.
Saffi turned to Dimple and was transported back to when they first met at the hospital. Her face was just as ashen as it had been then. Except this time, there were no flowers attempting to breathe life back into her. Just a dull candle and a red lighter cradled in her palms.