Chapter Twenty-Five #2
With everyone preoccupied, nobody noticed when Dimple emptied the packet she’d swiped into the glass of Scotch sitting on the waiter’s silver tray.
Swirling it a few times to make sure it dissolved, Dimple set the drink down and allowed the surging crowd to swallow her up.
The empty packet got lost in all the commotion, but that was of no consequence.
Mess finally dealt with, the waiter turned back to the tray and glanced up at Olsen and his friends.
He did a double-take that Dimple didn’t understand until she checked for herself.
Both Olsen and one of his friends had empty glasses.
She cursed under her breath. There was no telling who the drink would go to.
The waiter filled another glass with Scotch, overestimating.
The liquid threatened to spill, but there was no time to re-pour. He made his way to the men.
Unwilling to let her hard work go to waste, Dimple pushed her way through the dense crowd. She aimed for casual as she plucked the overfilled Scotch from the tray. The waiter froze, but Dimple didn’t give him the chance to complain as a group of rather energetic dancers surged around her.
Olsen was getting increasingly irritated as the seconds ticked by and his glass remained empty.
Not many dared contribute to the discomfort of A-listers at events like these, where their presence was widely regarded as a gift.
The waiter would have to decide: have Olsen complain about him slacking and lose his job, or deal with the wrath of Olsen’s C-lister friend for not bringing him a refill as well.
When Dimple looked down, heart thudding, the dim light reflecting off the liquid within the glass revealed a perfect mirror image of herself.
Cheeks flushed a healthy red from exertion, colorful lights glimmering in her dark gaze.
Dimple had never looked better. She pawned the Scotch off on an actor she vaguely recognized and moved to where she could watch the orchestrated chaos unfold.
She looked up again just in time to see the waiter had made the smart choice.
Almost in slow motion, he handed Hector the tainted glass.
Olsen didn’t so much as look up, let alone thank him.
In fact, the only one who acknowledged the waiter’s presence was the C-lister with an empty glass, berating him.
Any of Dimple’s guilt, though, was quickly overshadowed by the excitement of Olsen taking a sizable sip.
There was a pause as he stared deeply into his drink with a puzzled expression.
Dimple waited, shoulders squared, for the accusations to come flying, but Olsen didn’t so much as blink before tipping the rest back.
Not long after she watched Olsen down the liquid as though it were water, she saw his pupils blow wide, and standing up was evidently becoming an ordeal. He excused himself and began stumbling in the direction of the bathroom.
Dimple was already trailing behind him. “Excuse me, I’ll be in the restroom,” she whispered into her mic.
Saffi began to protest, but it was too late. The wiring from Dimple’s ears had long since been tossed unceremoniously into a potted plant. She passed the group of older men, their amusement apparent over how quickly their friend had gotten plastered.
Hector was stumbling more than Dimple had anticipated and she found herself in the hallway ahead of the restroom before he’d taken ten steps. It was no matter; he would have to pass her on his way there. A speaker positioned strategically to her left would make conversation difficult to overhear.
It was unclear whether the investigators had noticed Olsen’s presence yet, but either way, it wouldn’t be long before Saffi realized Dimple was up to something.
Perhaps she already had. Dimple would have to work quickly.
Awaiting Hector’s appearance, she scanned the crowd for Shyla Patel.
The actress was quite a ways back, but still visible, and that was all Dimple needed. She only had one shot at this.
A tall, hunched figure stumbled into her line of sight.
Dimple stabilized Hector Olsen by the shoulder with one hand.
The other dipped into his front pocket and fished out his keys, transferring them into her own.
They clinked as they settled beside her lighter.
She retreated, trying to avoid his pungent, alcohol-infused breath, but it was too late—Hector reached out and grasped her arm in an unforgiving grip.
Everywhere his skin came into contact with felt like a burning poison. Dimple shivered in disgust.
“Well, hello there,” he slurred. “What’s your name?”
He didn’t recognize her.
“I’m married,” Dimple said instinctively, desperate to get his hands off her. “With kids.”
For a moment, his face twisted in disgust, his grip loosening on her arm. Then it was back in full force, and he leaned even closer.
“How’s that? You don’t look a day over eighteen,” he purred.
Forget it, so what if he was holding on to her? It wasn’t as though he could do anything in front of so many people. And Dimple was running out of time. She put on her most severe expression.
“I have the perfect actress for your next movie,” she said, struggling to be heard over the pounding bass.
“The hell?” Hector exclaimed. He shoved her and Dimple nearly fell to the ground, catching herself on the wall at the last moment. At least he wasn’t touching her anymore. “Fucking leeches, I’m not here for work. Get outa my—”
“I promise you’ll love her,” Dimple tried, heart pounding as Hector continued to ignore her. She wracked her brain for something he could latch onto. “She’s beautiful—”
“I told you to fuck off!” he shouted.
Spit flew, his face inches from her own. Dimple flinched, taking an involuntary step back. A man just like him flashed through her mind, shouting at her for dropping his beer after he’d asked her to fetch it. Her hands dripping blood as she attempted to gather the broken pieces.
She had forgotten herself. Whatever delusion had made her think she could outwit a man like Hector Olsen quickly shattered. But she hadn’t come so far to give up now.
“I understand why me approaching you here might anger you.”
Hector’s face, however, only flushed redder at her acknowledgment. Then, not entirely unexpectedly, he flipped over a nearby table. An expensive-looking vase shattered into a thousand pieces across tile. It was all Dimple could do not to drop to her knees and immediately begin gathering the shards.
This drew a few lingering glances from the crowd. Many of them seemed to recognize Olsen, that this was typical of him, and turned away. Not that it mattered when the music completely overpowered their conversation.
“She’s right over there,” Dimple said in a weak final attempt, gesturing in Shyla’s direction.
The girl was almost too far to see through the crowd, but Hector faltered as soon as he laid eyes on her.
Shyla was young and exactly his type. Hector stumbled a bit, but quickly righted himself.
He seemed to have completely forgotten Dimple was there, choosing instead to stagger in Shyla’s direction.
“She wants to work for me?” he slurred, smug. “I think we can make something happen.”
Dimple felt immediate guilt for sending the man after Shyla, even though she knew the investigators were posted around the room for situations like these.
She reminded herself that Olsen was drunk and high and Shyla was surrounded by people.
All Dimple needed was for the man to approach her and cause a big enough scene for Dimple to slip away.
Surely the investigators would pick up on the fact that another brown woman involved in Insomnia being approached by their suspect was something to make note of.
Saffi would pick up on it immediately, but her attention would be too focused on Dimple to acknowledge it. She would have to rely on Atlas and Eli to jump to the correct conclusion.
Heart pounding, Dimple watched as the dense crowd parted for Olsen.
His attention didn’t waver from Shyla, but no one else seemed to catch on to his intentions.
The man stopped inches away from her and only then did she look up.
They seemed to exchange words, Olsen’s voice growing louder and more agitated as their conversation went on.
From the corner of her eye, Dimple caught movement.
Atlas. He was heading straight for Hector.
The crowd impeded his speed, though, and he was a second too late.
Hector Olsen’s fist was already raised. Dimple’s blood ran cold.
He swung forward, knuckles connecting with Shyla’s face, the resulting crunch loud enough to be heard over the music.
Just like that day on set filming Insomnia, Shyla Patel fell.
It had been Chris Porter’s character who’d pushed her off that ledge.
And all Dimple could do—both then and now—was watch.
Moonlight illuminated the scene in front of her, like a spotlight.
Halfway through her descent, Shyla Patel transformed into Irene Singh.
The ledge morphed into that same unforgettable staircase.
It wasn’t until the crowd erupted into screams, Shyla disappearing into it, that Dimple snapped back to reality.
She could just make out shouted demands to restrain Olsen.
Dimple stood frozen, unable to do anything but witness the horror she’d orchestrated.
Shyla’s unapologetic laugh flashed through her mind.
The two of them poking fun at Chris Porter in Dimple’s trailer between takes.
Joint disbelief over the main character’s carelessness.
Complaining about the late nights and early mornings.
Dimple had nearly forgotten that a man like Olsen, so used to attacking under the influence, would have perfected his aim in those conditions.
“Someone call the police!”
Dimple was out the door before sirens could be heard.