Chapter Thirty-Eight
Shooting for her latest film had long since wrapped for the day, but Dimple had stayed behind to speak with the director, making her the last one on set now.
Rarely did anyone want to linger too long, the director rushing out the door as soon as their conversation was over.
Clearly, he was no Jerome Bardoux. But Dimple couldn’t help it, she had concerns regarding her character arc.
Although the writing wasn’t quite as strong, this film needed to do just as well as Insomnia. No, it needed to do better.
Dimple found herself missing her old coworkers. Even Chris Porter, to an extent. They’d all gotten along relatively well, all eager to do a good job. For many of them, Insomnia had been their first film of such caliber. However, Dimple was beginning to realize that those environments were rare.
“Are you sure you’re not upset about me leaving the festival early?” Priyal asked. She’d dressed up today—done her hair and makeup as though she had a red carpet of her own after work.
“I’m quite certain,” Dimple reassured her for the third time. The two of them were in Dimple’s trailer, just about ready to go home for the day. She was waiting for Priyal to finish editing some photos on her laptop first. “You have to take every opportunity you get in this business.”
“Sure, but I don’t want to hurt my friends in the process.”
The sincerity in her tone made Dimple pause. “While I appreciate that, you didn’t hurt me.” Priyal wasn’t capable of it.
She breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“The good news is, you’ll only have to worry about it for another two weeks.
” It was a miserable thought. Soon, Dimple would have to take care of her own social accounts.
She would have to buy her own coffee. She’d spend most of her days alone.
Because the thought of hiring someone else, of giving yet another person the chance to grow close to her, was unthinkable.
She’d been trying not to dwell on it, throwing herself into her work instead.
“Right,” Priyal said. “But we’ll still hang out, won’t we? Maybe we’ll even see each other at the same events.”
Dimple tried to imagine it. She’d already spent some of the most important days of her life with Priyal by her side.
How different would it be with her there to promote her own work?
Where once Priyal’s brilliance was used to further Dimple’s career, what would happen when she used it to further her own instead?
Priyal had always been endearingly charming. Dimple’s co-stars had taken to her immediately. In a world where Priyal herself was a star, how quickly would Dimple fade into the shadows?
“Of course,” Dimple replied.
Absentmindedly, she brushed a finger over her knuckles. They were nearly healed now, just a few days later. As though they’d never bled in the first place. Dimple almost wished she’d been left with some sort of scar, but it seemed she was eternally cursed to carry invisible wounds.
“Hey, even if I’m not invited, can I still come with you to the Oscars?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Dimple asked, taking a sip of her drink. Matcha again. It left behind a strong aftertaste, but she’d found herself growing to like it.
“Obviously Insomnia will be nominated. Especially after it did so well at TIFF.”
Dimple set aside her drink. “Sure, Priyal. If we get nominated, you can come with me to the Oscars.”
With that answer, she seemed to be content. “My phone’s been buzzing for ten minutes, do you mind if I take a break?” Priyal asked, stretching.
Dimple waved her off, instead picking up her script. It wasn’t until Priyal gasped a few moments later that Dimple thought to wonder why, exactly, her phone had been so active.
“Saffi is—?” Priyal asked. “Oh, Dimple.”
So the article had finally broke.
Dimple didn’t dare read it, but she knew it had to be done.
With Saffi’s credibility destroyed, this was the only way Dimple could keep her promise.
Saffi would never look at Dimple the same way, yes, but maybe in turn she would finally see everything and everyone that had been holding her back from her true potential.
The proof was right in front of Saffi, if only she looked.
Dimple’s career had never been better, the public adored her.
The effort had been worth it in the end.
There were no steps forward but this one. If Dimple could go back and do it again, she would. The show must go on.
“Didn’t you say she was your friend?”
Dimple attempted to discern Priyal’s expression, but she was facing away from her. “That was a cover for the investigation. I had no choice but to go along with it.”
It was clear that Priyal was shaken up by this. Dimple wondered if she was reconsidering stepping into the spotlight now.
“But you were so convincing,” Priyal said.
“I’m an actress, Priyal,” Dimple replied easily.
“No, I’ve seen you act. It wasn’t like that.”
“People reach strange heights when it comes to life-or-death situations.”
“That sounds terrifying,” Priyal said, although she didn’t sound completely convinced. “I wish I could do something to help.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Dimple said simply.
“And the killer—do you think it’s—?”
“Hector Olsen? I do.”
“But he hasn’t been convicted?”
Dimple shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Thanks to her.” Priyal said it like a curse.
Dimple didn’t respond. Hadn’t she already done enough damage to Saffi’s character?
There was a knock at the door, which was odd considering they were the last two people left on set.
Priyal was still reading the article, so Dimple went to answer it.
If the news had broken, then there was a very good chance that it could be a lingering cast or crew member attempting to comfort her.
But when Dimple opened the door, it wasn’t a coworker waiting for her. It was the cool barrel of a gun pressed hard against her forehead.
Dimple stilled, hand frozen on the doorknob.
“Who is it?” Priyal called out.
“Priyal,” Dimple began, meeting her attacker’s gaze unflinchingly. “Hide.”
“What?”
It seemed that she finally turned to face the door because she gasped. Something heavy enough to be a phone clattered to the ground.
“Hey,” Priyal said, voice wobbly. “What’s going on?” From her peripheral, Dimple watched the girl slowly rise to her feet and press herself flat against the wall.
“I wasn’t expecting you to have guests,” Atlas Andino said, cold as stone.
“What are you doing?” Dimple asked, at a complete loss. Clearly something had changed between him asking her to take care of Saffi and now, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what. Atlas pushed inside, forcing her to walk backward. “What is it you want?”
“The truth,” he responded.
He didn’t act like a madman. It wasn’t as though his speech was slurred. He seemed resolved and that was almost more terrifying. This was nothing at all like the man who’d once looked at her as though she were the sun.
Dimple’s heart was startlingly still. Empty. She couldn’t die like this, in the trailer of the film she had yet to wrap. There was so much left to do—awards to win, promises to keep, legacies to create. She’d only just started living.
The door slammed shut behind Atlas. When Dimple’s calves hit the couch, she sank dutifully into the cushions. The barrel of the gun followed her down.
“You act innocent, you sign autographs, you bat your eyelashes,” he said. “You’ve been laughing at me this entire time, haven’t you?”
Dimple’s blood ran cold. He knew.
The gun pressed harder against her temple. “You manipulated me!” As though it was her fault he was so malleable.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asked, laughing. “I believed you. I stood up for you against the people I love because I thought you were a good person.” He scoffed. “At least I was right about one thing. You’re the best goddamn actress I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re the killer, aren’t you?” Priyal asked shakily. “It’s not Olsen, it’s you.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Atlas said, gun trembling against Dimple’s forehead. “That honor goes to your friend here.”
“Priyal, leave,” Dimple tried weakly.
“Move and I’ll blow your friend’s brains out,” Atlas said as though he were reading the weather report.
Priyal didn’t move an inch. “What do you want?” she asked a bit hysterically. “Money? I’m sure we can get it for you—however much you want!”
“Tell her what you’ve done,” Atlas ordered.
“Atlas—” Dimple tried.
“Tell her!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
All her life, Dimple had been haunted by impossible decisions. Suffer her aunt and uncle’s abuse or become a murderer. Cover up Irene’s death or subject herself to being forgotten. Protect Priyal’s image of herself or die. Dimple was tired of setting fires only to put them out later.
“Fine, then,” Atlas sneered. “Should I tell her? Where should I start? How about when you killed your competition, Irene Singh?” The ghost of his smile flickered in front of Dimple’s eyes. Months ago, they’d been comparing notes on their favorite films.
“Or how about when you killed an innocent waiter? Why—just because he figured out what you are?” Atlas continued.
Isaac Klossner was far from innocent. Saffi wouldn’t have gotten the details wrong like this. Dimple’s blood thrummed in her veins. Atlas had looked at the sun so long, he’d lost his vision.
“Or maybe when you framed Hector Olsen for murder and burned his house down?”
No mention of her aunt and uncle. Even now, Atlas looked at her through a lens. In many ways, Dimple only existed through Saffi. The true, unfiltered version of her. It left her a little smug, the thought that someone like her was only comprehensible through someone like Saffi.
Dimple then realized, horrified, that the only way Atlas had come to know this information was through Saffi. Either she’d told him, or he’d gone through her files. The former was incomprehensible. The latter was unforgivable.