It didn’t take long for Saffi to realize that her former associates’ shortsightedness was due to a chronic lack of imagination. On the surface, the victim had no boyfriend, no crazy exes, not so much as a filed restraining order. Those were the most cliché suspects: jealous, violent men. But the men whom Singh had been connected to in the past had alibis for the night. And her friends and family couldn’t name any recent trysts. The textbook that Andino and Taylor worked from only held so many chapters. It wasn’t their fault they were used to the usual scam artists and cheating spouses.
Really, it was impossible to know for sure if Singh hadn’tencountered a man who took rejection too personally. Or, hell, even a stalker. While Saffi couldn’t rule out a crime of that nature, men like that usually weren’t satisfied with something as tame as a push down the stairs. Irene Singh was an heiress and a rising Hollywood star who’d died at a party she’d thrown for herself. If she’d been killed, it was most likely at the hands of an invited guest. Given that this was a party featuring the pinnacle of Hollywood’s diet-elite, the culprit had to be a peer. Another actress. Saffi had always privately held the association that the best killers were the theatrical ones. Jealousy and competition were the first things that came to mind. Someone who’d finally snapped. Someone who’d stand to gain from her death. Surely an heiress had no shortage of resentful competitors.
The toxicology report they’d provided Saffi showed evidence the victim had at most two drinks. She was not at all inebriated enough to explain a stumble to her death. Let alone a stumble down a staircase in a house she’d lived in for over a decade.
Photos revealed a tear in the dress—in the back. Saffi could see it clear as day, Irene Singh taking a step back onto the fabric and stumbling. A loud rip as her heel tore into the material. And then falling.
The rip meant she’d likely fallen backwards—facing away from the staircase. Chances were, she’d been speaking to someone. Someone who hadn’t come forward to reveal this information. Maybe the person had pushed her. Maybe they were aware that it would look like they’d pushed her if they did. Guilt or fear, whatever it was—Saffi found herself intrigued.
Disturbing the threads of an industry so closely interwoven might’ve intimidated any lesser investigator but, maybe because she was of spinster age, Saffi was a big fan of gossip. It fueled most of her investigative theories. Coming across gossip was like discovering a gold mine. Separating the good from the bad, however, was similar to mining for said gold. Which was to say: dangerous and often disappointing.
For this case, Saffi got her fix of gossip from the C-tier actors who were in attendance at Irene Singh’s party on January twenty-third. The lesser-known celebrities were easy to contact and far too eager to show off their insider knowledge. After suffering through severaltedious phone calls and needlessly lengthy email threads, Saffi concluded that there were a few names that kept coming up in conversation. Shyla Patel, for example, was a strong contender.
There was one name, though, that made itself known most of all. Dimple Kapoor.
Once she started looking into it, Saffi found she couldn’t stop. She’d probably clicked through every mention of the actress online. Apparently, Kapoor had been recently named the lead in a highly anticipated movie coming out next year. Saffi couldn’t quite comprehend why, especially considering that nearly all of the actress’s past films had flopped. Not to mention how suspicious the timing was. To announce the casting of such an anticipated movie the same week as a beloved heiress’s death—Saffi knew next to nothing about public relations and yet even she could recognize that it was strange. Regardless, every question led back to Dimple Kapoor.
“Who would you say was Irene Singh’s greatest rival in the industry?”
“Dimple Kapoor.”
“Who would you say was Irene Singh’s closest friend in the industry?”
“Dimple Kapoor.”
Saffi had yet to find a scandal in relation to Kapoor, but she’d unearthed enough of them from her father’s political opponents to know that there was something lurking underneath the surface. Kapoor’s interview with Andino and Taylor was one of the more predictable ones. A bit like an actor delivering a dramatic monologue. For someone who’d supposedly been drunk, she didn’t take longer than a second to recall the events of the night. Almost as though she’d been anticipating Andino and Taylor’s questions.
The pictures Saffi had looked up online made it clear that she was a carbon copy of the victim—she’d be more shocked if Singh and Kapoorhadn’theld any resentment for each other. There were some differences, of course. The most notable being that Kapoor’s hair was longer, her skin a deeper brown. And, obviously, her trademark dimples.
For someone who came up so often in conversation, however,Dimple Kapoor hadn’t warranted a single mention in any of Irene Singh’s interviews, photos, or social media accounts. There was only one photo in existence of these two supposed friends, standing side by side, cheeks smushed together almost painfully. As though the closer they were, the more convincing their facade. Although, it wasn’t Irene Singh who’d posted it—it was Dimple Kapoor.
There were a few reasons she might’ve done so. It could’ve been that the rivalry was played up for media attention. Maybe they braided each other’s hair and made friendship bracelets off camera. But the only people who got along with their doppelgängers were those conditioned at birth to do so, like twins and triplets. And even then, sometimes not. And especially not in an industry so focused on image.
Another reason could be that Kapoor had posted the photo to capitalize on the attention surrounding the victim’s death. There were plenty of celebrities who had done the same, but those had all been professional photographs coupled with a long, thoughtful PR-approved message. The standard. This, on the other hand, was blurry and captionless, extremely out of place in Kapoor’s carefully curated feed. It felt raw. Not to mention that it had been posted before the official news had broken.
The last reason was one Saffi hoped to be true purely because of how interesting it was. That Dimple Kapoor had posted this picture as a manifestation of guilt after killing Irene Singh.
Saffi managed to get ahold of the casting directors responsible for Irene’s most recent films. They were all too eager to chat when Saffi revealed she was working on a high-profile murder investigation. Gossip was a two-way street, after all. It turned out, every major role Singh had auditioned for recently had been in competition with Kapoor. And she’d won the vast majority of them. Maybe that was why Kapoor would want Irene dead.
Could she really have doneit?
The innocent, doe-eyed woman off camera said,No, never.The actress on-screen in the thrillers said,Yes, of course.And Saffi found herself wondering just how far this woman would go for her ambitions.
Chapter Seven
February 2, 2026
There was athud as Dimple’s bag fell to the pristine, polished hardwood, but she barely registered the noise through the ringing in her ears. A phone number with a California area code was listed below the message in the same terrible penmanship. She pressed her fingers harshly into the note, sending a spiderweb of crinkles throughout.
Dimple attempted to think rationally through the panic, through the metallic tang of blood in her mouth where she’d bitten her cheek. She leaned against the cool granite countertop, blinking rapidly into the yellow light. Her skin crawled at the thought that someone had so easily invaded her space. Had they kicked their feet up on her couch? Drank from her sink? The paper displayed on the front of the trailer, the one printed with her name, was fragile, all things considered. A harsh gust of wind could blow it away. The granite countertop she leaned against felt seconds away from cracking under her weight, the sticky residue left behind on the mirror taunting her. None of this was permanent and none of it was really hers.
And yet the granite remained unmoving beneath her. A damp napkin was all it took to wipe away the residue on the mirror. Dimple left the water running for a moment, watching it swirl down the drain as though washing away the impurities the intruder had left behind. The sign on the front of the trailer could rip to shreds, itdidn’t change the fact that for the duration of the shoot, this space belonged to Dimple. It was her right.
She’d just learned that the Singhs were in the process of suing Salomé for their daughter’s death. Freedom from this nightmare was within sight—within grasp. Dimple’s entire life up until now had been endured with survival in mind. Finally, she was beginning to live—truly live. The person who’d left this note was the only one capable of taking this from her. They would have to claw it from her cold, dead hands.
Whoever this was, they wanted something. The phone call, should she choose to make it, would end in a list of demands. And an actress only had two things that people desired—money and fame.
It was possible they were bluffing about this so-calledproof,but regardless, they knew what Dimple had done. That was dangerous enough on its own. Her knees gave out and she collapsed painfully to the ground next to her bag.
