“Why do you sound surprised?” Shyla Patel asked, coming to stand beside Dimple with her arms crossed.
If Dimple had to pick a favorite co-star, it would be Shyla. She was a bit younger—closer to Irene’s age before she died—but she had a lot of talent. InInsomnia,she played Dimple’s best friend, and their camaraderie at times transcended the screen.
“It was a compliment,” Chris scowled.
As Shyla and Chris traded barbs, as usual, Dimple came to the realization that her co-stars were impressed with her. Even Jerome Bardoux seemed pleased, though he would never admit it in so many words, but the fact that he’d moved on without even a second take for safety spoke volumes.
Only, Dimple had not been acting.
The same thing had happened a few days prior when Chris’s character killed Shyla’s with a push off a ledge. It was a moment of immense gravity, the start of Dimple’s redemption arc, and she’d frozen then just as she had today. Ghosts awaited her at the bottom of the ledge. In place of Shyla’s golden brown skin caked with dirt and blood splattered across the ground, Dimple had seen Irene lying there, motionless. The greatest performers claimed that the best acting was derived from personal experience, but surely this was too far. What would she have said, had Jerome not interrupted her? Would she have uttered a name she had no business knowing, likeIsaac Klossner? Or would it have been an admission of guilt? Dimple closed her eyes. She needed to get ahold of herself.
Innocent Dimple Kapoor had been close friends with Irene Singh.
She’d never met Isaac Klossner.
She did not know what it was to kill.
And she was a damn good actress.
This role was even more important than the one she was playing on-screen.
“Are you okay? You seem kind of out of it,” Shyla asked, nudging Dimple with her elbow until she opened her eyes. Chris Porter had moved off to the side, discussing something with Jerome Bardoux.
“Just thinking about how her fingerprints were all over that door,” Dimple muttered.
She and Shyla had created a game of cataloging all the ways Dimple’s character would’ve been caught in real life. It was rather fun.
Shyla laughed. “And are you telling me there’s not anyone else at that party who heard her scream?”
A flash of deleted camera footage—Irene Singh’s mouth open in a soundless scream. Falling, falling.
Dimple snapped herself out of it with forced pleasantry. “Exactly. She wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Chapter Eleven
March 1, 2026
Saffi had assumedthat the additional information from Isaac Klossner’s death would give her a new perspective on things, but she found herself slipping back into old habits. As rare as it was for an initial theory to be the correct one, she had never been able to restrain herself from at least looking into it. Especially one as interesting as this.
And once again, something on Kapoor’s social media accounts caught Saffi’s attention. A comment on a post announcing her asInsomnia’s lead, one that Kapoor’s official account had responded to. The acting headshots posted to the commenter’s profile matched the photos of Klossner that they had on file.
Kapoor had been working at a studio close to the phone booth at the time. There was a good chance she had been the one he’d been speaking to. And a few hours later, he’d been found dead. As always, every sign pointed toward Dimple Kapoor.
If Andino or Taylor were asked what to do in this situation, they’d probably advocate for confronting the suspect immediately before she got the chance to run away. Never one to be outshined, Saffi shrugged on her black suit jacket.
As she was leaving, something compelled her to pause at the office closest to hers. The door was wide open and laughter echoed down the hallway. Three desks were crammed into the small space, anintern sitting at each of them. College students getting their required work experience before they could apply for their PI licenses. Two boys and one girl. Saffi’s fingers clenched in the fabric of her jacket at the sight of them. They hadn’t noticed her standing there, and she turned away before they could.
—
The bell chimedas Saffi stepped onto the checkered tile of an upscale café, cueing a cheesy greeting from one of the staff. The air was ripe with the smell of overpriced coffee beans and underpaid workers. It didn’t matter which city she was in, Saffi had never felt compelled to spend more than five dollars of her own money on a coffee.
This side of LA didn’t seem to share her mindset, full of designer bags and expensive cars and people who acted more important than they were. If Saffi let the chatter of the patrons wash over her, she could almost pretend she was in any other major city in the world.
She stepped into the line that wrapped all the way around the store, staying alert. A quick glance at her watch confirmed that it was a quarter past twelve in the afternoon. Most of the city had already finished their lunch hour. There was a chance Saffi was too late to accomplish what she’d come here for. Still, she could use the caffeine.
She had yet to sleep, having stayed up all night to watch Kapoor’s entire filmography. It had been for naught; she still couldn’t quite admit that she understood the appeal. Saffi held steadfastly on to the belief that actors were overpaid and unjustly idolized. And for telling lies for a living. She’d locked people up for less.
When it was finally her turn, Saffi ordered a black coffee, swearing that if she came all this way for nothing, she’d sue the place for price gouging. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, the bell made a garbled half-chime, half-clunk sound as someone stumbled inside.
