For a moment, the world slowed to a standstill and Dimple stopped to consider what she was about to do. Isaac couldn’t be taller than five-eight and Dimple had a few inches on him still. She probably weighed more too. There was no one else around. And in a few hours, she would be due on set.
There was a flash of too-light hair in Isaac’s glasses—Dimple’s reflection. This too was nothing more than a role she was playing. What kind of actress would she be if she didn’t give it her all?
Isaac finally broke from his trance, expression contorting in horror and recognition. “It’s you? You fucking creep! I’m calling the police—”
Dimple cut off the tail end of his sentence, barreling into him and pushing with all her strength. It was unclear whether it was Dimple or the universe who had a sick sense of humor, because when IsaacKlossner was pushed out of his apartment and sent tumbling backward over the fourth-story railing, free-falling, all Dimple could think about was the irony that this was happening again.
Isaac wasn’t like Irene, though. There was no beauty in his death. An ugly shout worked its way from his throat. Still, the sound when his head connected with concrete below was hauntingly familiar.
Isaac took longer to die—that was another difference. Irene’s neck had snapped cleanly, but he was a gasping mess for what felt like an eternity. Slowly losing consciousness as his head injury bled out. Dimple knew it was over when she was left with only the still night sky to keep her company.
She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how cold it had become, although that could’ve been the adrenaline winding down. She looked up because it was safer than looking down, trying to pinpoint stars in the polluted sky. There were none.
The fact that none of the other residents seemed to stir gave Dimple a sense of satisfaction. Perhaps everyone had heard and hated Isaac enough to disregard it. Or perhaps this was the universe’s way of telling her that she’d done the right thing.
As Dimple peered over the railing, it turned out that Isaac was not entirely dissimilar to Irene. Head bent at an unnatural angle, blood leaking from his skull. His eyes, however, were wide open and unblinking, marking his end. Isaac Klossner would torment no one else ever again.
At least, no one but Dimple.
Chapter Nine
February 3, 2026
As the sunbegan to rise, Saffi concluded that there wasn’t much additional information to be found in the paperwork.
Most of the knowledge she had now were things she could have—and had—already guessed. In her early years, this would’ve made her impatient. And that meant making mistakes. Now, however, she only felt excitement—the kind she hadn’t felt for a case in half a decade. Saffi was still getting to know the major players and the setting that brought this mystery to life. This was the calm before the first breakthrough. The building itch under her skin that reminded her that she was on the precipice of something big. It never lasted long, so she tried to savor it while it did. Regardless, now that she had something to discuss, she’d finally let Andino and Taylor know she was taking up residence in their office building.
For the first time since stepping foot in it, Saffi took in the space. The interior design started and stopped with an antiquated ticking clock on the wall, but the furniture was new and the appliances fully functional. A mounted television she hadn’t immediately noticed stared down at her. She felt a pang of something foreign. Perhaps a reminder of what could’ve been hers in another life.
It was ridiculous. Saffi wasn’t the type to stick around long enough to build a foundation. She’d never wanted that in the first place. But she might as well set it to her liking for as long as she was here.
Someone knocked on the door, but Saffi, in the middle of pushing her desk closer to the window, didn’t answer. She opened the shutters, allowing in daylight. Despite not hearing a reply, Taylor pushed the door open and stepped inside, Andino shuffling in behind him with crossed arms and a scowl. It suddenly struck her how familiar this was, as though she’d never left at all.
The emotions hit her all at once: relief, comfort, fear. Andino and Taylor’s looks held five years’ worth of questions that Saffi didn’t have the mental capacity to decode. She was saved from speaking first when both men looked away, distracted by the rearranged furniture.
It may have felt like no time had passed, but the years gone by were evident in their faces. They’d all been in their early twenties when she left, and now they were closer to thirty. Taylor had the beginning traces of smile lines etched into his dark skin, Saffi was glad to see, whereas Andino was developing an eyebrow crease and frown lines across his pale forehead. Taylor’s hair had been shaved short, but Andino still styled his with copious amounts of gel.
Similar, but different.
“I see you didn’t waste any time making yourself at home,” Andino said.
That was when she realizedAndino was wearing a suit.It hadn’t struck her as odd because of how at home he looked in it. Before, it was all casual wear, which was at times synonymous with what he wore to the gym. Neither she nor Taylor had ever been able to get away with that. Whether Taylor had finally worn him down or he’d grown up at last, things were different now. Owning a business must’ve played a part init.
“Have you eaten?” Taylor asked. That was when she noticed the take-out containers he was holding.
“No,” she said. “Have you?”
Taylor distributed the meals, Saffi on one side of her desk while the men took an armchair each on the other. The packaging screamed overpriced touristy spot. For a smug moment she wondered if they were trying to show off, to prove that they’d made it big too. It was unnecessary—Saffi was well aware they were doing well forthemselves. The fact that none of their furniture had any missing legs was proof enough.
Saffi took a bite of her food—vegetarian. They’d remembered.
Back in Arizona when they were interns, still in college, the three of them had worked together at a single cramped desk. Chipped tiles, broken furniture, and flickering lightbulbs had been the extent of their interior design. Every day was a comfort and a chaos: fist-fighting over who had to go pick up lunch, heated debates over far-fetched theories, consuming lethal doses of caffeine. It had been home once.
Saffi had been the first of the three to obtain her license and be offered the full-time private investigator position. She’d been so smug at the time. Andino and Taylor had been promoted together a few months later—they always did things in pairs. But even once they’d gotten their own offices, the three of them still spent their lunch breaks—or rather, their one-of-them-remembered-they-needed-to-eat-to-survive breaks—poring over case files together.
And then Saffi had fucked up and left the country and Andino and Taylor started their own PI agency not long after. A few years later, when Saffi had grown curious—and perhaps a little drunk and lonely—she’d looked up their old workplace. Stronghold Private Eye in Arizona.
It didn’t surprise her to find that it had been shut down, but it did catch her off guard. A similar feeling to misplacing your birth certificate.
