Chapter Thirty-One
Saffi stifled a yawn into the crook of her elbow.
She was flying to Toronto the same day of Insomnia’s premiere.
Planes always made her sleepy, but that fact was only exacerbated by how late she’d stayed up the night before.
She’d gone to speak with Hector Olsen, knowing it would bother her for the entirety of their trip if she waited.
Besides, it had taken weeks for her to convince Olsen to meet with her in the first place and she refused to let the effort go to waste.
If she’d known how irritating the man could be, she might’ve stuck to exchanging emails instead.
“I’m the best director in Hollywood and this is how they repay me?” Olsen had ranted. “It’s like everyone’s forgotten how many of my movies have won Oscars! I’ve created the careers of ninety percent of the actors working in Hollywood right now!”
Refusing to meet him in his room, Saffi had reserved one of the conference spaces at the upscale Beverly Hills hotel he was staying in while he looked for a new house.
Although, it might’ve been more effective to interrogate him at a police station.
If only the bureaucratic mess of paperwork it would require didn’t put her off.
No, it was better to stay off the books. A mutually consensual discussion, nothing more. And if the man ended up confessing his sins to her, well, it would only be to her benefit.
“Mr. Olsen, if we could please stay on topic—”
“Do you have any idea the work I’ve put into this industry?
This film is going to be the best thing to grace cinema in fifty years!
But just because I like to have fun every once in a while, I’m suddenly a threat to society?
I’ve spent every waking hour of the past few months on that set. Just ask my assistant!”
“That’s great, Mr. Olsen,” Saffi had replied absently. “Now, the party where Dimple Kapoor was targeted—”
Olsen’s eyes had darkened at Dimple’s mention. “You can tell that little bitch to shove her lies—”
“And what, exactly, did she lie about?” Saffi asked.
“She wishes I touched her—I didn’t even go to that party,” he seethed.
Saffi had paused at that, straightening up considerably. “What do you mean by that?”
Olsen shifted in his chair, as though uncomfortable, but continued in a much more subdued tone. “Are you deaf or stupid? I said I didn’t go.”
Saffi clenched her fists. “Mr. Olsen, this is a serious claim you’re making. You do understand that if you were not at the party, there is no way you were to blame for Dimple Kapoor’s fall? What’s more, the real killer could be framing you. Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Olsen shouted. “It’s the ethnic bitch with the long hair—she did this to me!”
He slammed his fist down on the table with a loud thud and Saffi felt the vibrations against her elbows.
She didn’t flinch, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Men like Olsen were used to lording their power and stature over others.
But no matter what he might think, Saffi was the one who held the power there.
She could, however, somewhat sympathize with the plight of being the only one who could sense something off about Dimple Kapoor.
“How would you explain her blood on your suit?”
“It wasn’t me! Those are custom-made—very expensive,” he scoffed, clearly put out that Saffi was unaffected by his antics. “Dry clean only. I’ve never even spilled water on them.”
She heard the frustration creep into her voice. “If not at the party, then where were you that night? Is there anyone who could verify your whereabouts?”
And because nothing could ever be so easy, Olsen suddenly closed in on himself.
Saffi could see it in the way he angled away, crossing his arms. If he was refusing to tell her what he’d been doing, then Saffi figured it must’ve been something equally as damning—if not more.
But if she could figure out what he was hiding, then maybe she could at least get him locked away for another, more appropriate reason.
Killing two birds with one stone. If Olsen became too defensive, however, there would be no reasoning with him.
“This information could exonerate you. If you’re found guilty, you’ll be put on death row. And that’s exactly what whoever is framing you wants to happen.”
Saffi had played the Dimple card in the hopes that it would get him riled up enough to admit something. It had been far from helpful.
“I don’t care what that bitch says, I didn’t lay a hand on her,” Olsen growled, fists clenched so hard they trembled. “Don’t tell me she’s still holding a grudge? It was just a little something to get her to loosen up—what she gave me was worse!”
Saffi stilled, pen frozen above her notepad. She’d been almost certain that she’d misheard. “Excuse me?”
“What?” he asked, suddenly defensive. “She’d never been drunk before. I did her a favor! Usually, girls love that shit.”
Saffi’s throat ran dry. “Are you telling me you drugged her?”
“I didn’t drug her, it was just a little alcohol. And it was years ago! It’s not like I—”
Saffi hadn’t realized she had her hands fisted in Olsen’s shirt until he’d stopped speaking, his breath cut off by her tight grip.
For a moment, all she could do was stare down at his horrified expression and watch in fascination as his face began to redden.
His hands scrambled weakly against her hold.
If this was what it took for him to learn that it was not she who should fear him, but the other way around, then so be it.
“Where were you the night of the party?” Her tone was hushed and angry.
When he didn’t immediately answer, she shook him and repeated the question. The color of his face was approaching tomato and Saffi was beginning to think she was going about this the wrong way. Olsen was showing no signs of confessing. She let up the slightest amount and he choked out—“Laila.”
His ex-wife.
The one who’d tried to sue him for domestic abuse and lost. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together.
Revenge for the attempted lawsuit or even thoughtless violence, whatever reason Olsen had for being with his wife that night didn’t matter.
What mattered was how unlikely it was she would be willing to testify on behalf of her abuser.
Just as Olsen began to relax, Saffi tightened her grip on his shirt collar once again. “Don’t get the wrong idea. You may not be guilty of murder, but you’ve done much worse. If I can promise you one thing, it’s this: So long as I live, I will not let you walk away a free man.”
Olsen’s lips turned blue and Saffi let go of his shirt.
He’d slumped in his seat and hadn’t spoken another word.
Despite that minor setback, she’d left the hotel with a sense of accomplishment.
Even though the world still believed Olsen to be a liar and even though he would never speak another candid word to her again, Saffi couldn’t help feeling like it had been worth it.
A man so stupid he’d confess something like that in her presence simply could not be the same killer she had been going toe-to-toe with this entire time.
It bothered her that she didn’t get the chance to speak with Laila Olsen before the flight.
Still, Saffi didn’t like the idea of letting a murderous actress leave the country unsupervised.
It wasn’t that she expected her to run, but Dimple Kapoor was a menace enough by herself in America.
Who knew what she’d get up to in Canada? No, it was important to keep her close.
Extremely close. The airplane seats were uncomfortably tiny.
Dimple had taken the middle seat, but Saffi had a feeling the troubled expression on her face wasn’t discomfort.
Her attention dropped to Dimple’s hands.
They were crossed over her chest, fingers digging into her biceps.
Years of harsh touches—was it also the only way she knew to hold herself?
“What—are you scared?” Saffi asked, but the look Dimple gave her was enough to both confirm her suspicions and stop her line of questioning in its tracks.
“Don’t say a word,” Dimple warned.
“There’s no way. If you’re scared of heights, why did you throw yourself off a balcony?
” Saffi hissed. It made sense, given her history, but she had assumed she’d found some way to move past it.
That she’d been terrified and done it nevertheless spun Saffi’s mind in circles.
What was it like, to want something that badly?
Dimple’s expression said she knew exactly how much this revelation had made Saffi question herself, and that it amused her.
On the opposite side, Priyal had both earbuds in and her eyes closed. The flight attendants performing final checks indicated that it wouldn’t be long before takeoff. Dimple’s biceps now had red marks where her nails were digging in.
“Relax, will you?” Saffi said. “You’re gonna break your arm.”
“I am relaxed.” Dimple said it so convincingly, Saffi would’ve thought she was telling her the sky was blue.
This was the first real sign Saffi had seen of what lurked underneath the mask of Dimple’s manufactured emotions. She wanted to see more. She wanted to see her break. Saffi wanted to know what it took to push her over the edge—what it took to get her to push someone else over the edge.
She reached over and pinched the actress nearly hard enough to draw blood. Dimple let go of her arms, but not before shooting Saffi an irritated look.
“That thing you said to me—about Andino and Taylor holding me back,” Saffi began.
That had Dimple’s attention immediately. It was a weighty thing, receiving every ounce of the actress’s focus. “I have to admit, I’m surprised it stuck with you,” she said.
If anything, Saffi hadn’t been able to forget. “What did you mean?”
Dimple seemed to consider it for a moment, turning it over in her mind. “They don’t let you be great.”