Chapter Twenty-Four
Saffi’s story rattled Dimple more than it should have, now that she knew the weights of their individual guilt could balance a scale.
They were connected, in a way, both haunted by accidents and a path to hell paved with all the right intentions.
It didn’t change the fact that they were on opposite sides of an ongoing war, but maybe they didn’t have to be.
Dimple had always thought that, by the end of this, either she would be on death row or Saffi would be bleeding out at the bottom of a grand staircase, but perhaps they were more alike than she’d initially thought. Alike enough to share a fate even.
Exasperated by the dead heat of summer, Dimple had her first meeting with everyone involved in Insomnia’s production. Save for Chris Porter, of course.
With the inclusion of the public relations and legal teams, it was excruciatingly long, fluffed up by incomprehensible jargon mentioned every five minutes. Dimple’s co-stars were somber. Shyla Patel seemed to teeter between anger and holding back tears. Dimple wasn’t sure what to do with herself.
By the end of the meeting, it was strongly suggested not to make an official statement about Chris Porter’s situation.
They wanted to wait and see what would come of it first. Chris wasn’t to be involved in any of the promotion, but they were keeping him in the movie for now.
In his place, it was suggested that Dimple take on the task of being the face of the film.
On one hand, she was terrified it would all backfire on her.
On the other, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.
“Are we not going to talk about it at all?” Shyla spoke up suddenly. “He killed someone!”
A hush overtook the room. Somehow, that word had been avoided for the better part of three hours. Dimple watched as the executives exchanged glances.
“She has a point.” Jerome took the opportunity to speak up.
He sounded contemplative, picking at his fingernail.
“It’s our job to fix this. We don’t want the public taking us down with him.
The best thing we can do in this situation is to treat it as a learning opportunity.
Chris is already working with his team. To cover our bases, I propose we donate a portion of the movie’s box office proceeds to charity. ”
Dimple hoped that portion would come from Chris’s paycheck. Because why should they suffer for Chris’s mistakes? Dimple might’ve done worse, but at least she hadn’t been caught.
The executives put a pin on Jerome’s proposition with a promise to discuss the logistics further and the meeting concluded, but not without bringing up lawyers, contracts, and NDAs to ensure everything remained among the people in the room.
Online traction, on the other hand, was on a steep upward trend. Say what you may, death was not terrible marketing for a psychological thriller. Even if the reception was as chilling as it was.
Fans were nearly split down the middle regarding Chris Porter.
One side called him murderer and villain, even escalating to death threats—which Dimple found dreadfully ironic.
The other claimed he was misunderstood—that he’d learned his lesson and didn’t deserve to have his life ruined over a simple mistake.
Regardless, Insomnia had been trending worldwide since the news first broke.
And while Dimple had gained several followers, most of them were only there in anticipation of what she had to say about the situation.
Some even berated her for ever having dated a monster like Chris—going off baseless rumors from their early filming days.
As though she’d been the one behind the wheel.
Dimple, admittedly, was no different from those so fascinated by everything going on. She’d spent every waking moment religiously monitoring the state of affairs. She was sure not even Chris Porter’s lawyers were as up-to-date as she was.
Consequently, an alert heralding a new article was waiting for her when she got back to her apartment.
brEAKING: Actor Chris Porter Checks into Rehab, All Charges Dismissed
Every molecule in the room came to a standstill. Dimple didn’t move, didn’t breathe. She read the headline once, twice, thrice, and it didn’t change.
Could it really be so easy?
Dimple scanned the article for new information, squinting as the brightness burned her retinas, but it was filled with nothing but glowing praise for the fact that Chris was getting the help he needed.
No mention of the innocent he’d killed, and none in the comments either.
Just like that, public perception was already shifting.
Chris was being praised for the very thing Saffi had fled the country for.
Would people be so quick to forgive if it had been Dimple behind the wheel?
If she’d confessed to her crimes, she knew for a fact that her career would never recover.
And yet she doubted Chris even had enough time to perspire before everything was dropped as though it had never happened.
When Dimple spotted her name nestled within a long paragraph, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. The words on the page blurred and danced, morphing and changing shape.
brEAKING: Dimple Kapoor, Debut Lead Actress of “Insomnia,” Indicted on Charges of Murder
Dimple dropped her phone like it had burned her.
It landed somewhere on her rug, but it might as well have vanished.
Her breathing came out short, chest constricting as the world shifted.
With uncooperating legs she staggered to her knees, hands reaching haphazardly for stability and finding none.
The ringing in her ears reached a fever pitch.
Suddenly, it was she who was facing trial.
And it was Irene Singh on the witness stand in front of her.
“Dimple Kapoor is a murderer,” she said as blood leaked steadily from her head, trickling down her face like tears.
The jury, the shadowed figures of her aunt and uncle, laughed and laughed. Dimple searched for a shred of normalcy, for the briefest glimpse of an understanding face—
“Saffi,” she breathed.
If anyone were to understand what it was to kill as a byproduct of ambition, it would be her. Saffi was unflinching, staring right into Dimple’s soul.
She stepped closer and reached out just like she had back in her office.
Slow, deliberate movements. Dimple almost flinched when cold fingers traced her neck, but found that she couldn’t move.
It hadn’t been like this before. Saffi’s touch had always felt electric, like the lights dimming before the start of a film.
Hands closed around Dimple’s throat without warning, squeezing tight.
Every scream, every wheeze, every protest died before it could be set free.
She thrashed around, scratching at the hands, leaving rivers of red in her wake, but they did not relent.
Saffi did not relent. It reminded Dimple of fingers brushing against her wrist brace, proof of her confinement.
Dimple, behind bars.
Dimple, heart pounding, sitting on a cold slab, waiting to die by lethal injection, then by electric chair, then by a push down a grand staircase.
Each time, it was Saffi administering the punishment.
Chris Porter’s mocking laughter echoed in Dimple’s ears, his heavy, leaden arm permanently slung across her shoulders.
Scrambling blindly for her lighter, Dimple counted backward from ten. Cold plastic against skin snapped her back to reality. She nearly passed out in relief when she confirmed that the name in the headline belonged to Chris Porter—not her.
These episodes were becoming worse. The waking nightmares had never been able to touch her before—something that happened more often than not recently.
When her breathing finally evened out and the ringing in her ears subsided, Dimple took a deep breath and felt the world gradually stop spinning around her.
There was nothing she could do to put an end to the bouts of mania, but her hands itched regardless.
She picked up the pages of an upcoming audition and read them over yet again.