Every head snapped to the door. The girl’s chunky glasses were askew as she leaned forward, hands on her knees, and attempted to catch her breath. She didn’t seem to notice the stares. Deep brown skin, round cheeks, and short enough that her head barely reachedSaffi’s shoulders. It was twelve thirty on the day Saffi first met Dimple Kapoor’s assistant, Priyal Tiwari.
Tiwari’s presence came as no surprise. The tone of Kapoor’s usual social media posts were far too chipper for the personality Saffi had assigned to the actress. Priyal Tiwari’s personal account, the one credited for Dimple Kapoor’s candid photos, had a suspiciously similar tone to Kapoor’s. It was likely Tiwari had been the one who’d replied to Klossner’s comment.
There was often a coffee cup or sandwich bag from this particular café somewhere in the background of Kapoor’s photos, so it wasn’t difficult to stage a meeting like this. If Andino and Taylor were in charge of this case, they would’ve gone to Kapoor directly—probably going so far as to knock on her door and ask outright if she was the killer. As much as Saffi was thrown off by being back in the States, emulating Andino and Taylor would do her no good, not when she’d long since developed her own tactics.
She preferred to let her suspects stew. The longer she waited, the more her targets sweated, wondering why she hadn’t yet approached them. That was when the guilty made their most drastic, desperate mistakes.
As Tiwari waited in the long line, Saffi bided her time, mind sharpening with every sip of her drink. Past experience of what was to come made her slip off her suit jacket and drape it over the back of a chair for safekeeping.
The girl was just as absentminded as Saffi suspected, looking anywhere but in front of her as she walked. It was a collision course waiting to happen. Saffi would prefer anything to small talk, even surface-level burns, but thankfully Tiwari was holding two iced coffees.
The inevitable collision was underwhelming, one drink splashing onto Saffi’s white button-down, the other coloring the ground. A shocked gasp from the girl. Conversation halted, scaling down into murmurs as everyone stopped to stare again. Saffi prepared her meanest glare.
“I’m so sorry!” Tiwari said, elbows pressed flat against her sides.
She looked like she was about to cry, which Saffi hadn’t accounted for. She hurried to the single-occupancy bathroom, relieved to see Tiwari clambering after her, wringing her hands with nerves. With angry, stilted movements, Saffi wiped her shirt clean. She didn’t actually want it to stain. Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately—she’d done this enough times to work out the best method to avoid that problem.
Guilt was a powerful bonding tactic, especially for a first meeting, but it only worked on certain types of people. Priyal Tiwari, luckily, was exactly that type of person.
“Can I do anything to help?” she asked.
The girl was trembling. She kept a very specific distance from Saffi, standing almost exactly an arm’s-length away, and had left the door open behind her.
Deciding she’d let the girl wallow in misplaced guilt for long enough, Saffi braced herself to endure yet another conversation. As if the needlessly verbose dialogue with Hollywood’s diet-elite hadn’t been enough. The things she did for justice. Her father would be so proud.
Saffi looked up, glaring at Tiwari through the mirror. And then she faltered. Her eyes widened as though sudden recognition had struck.
See? Acting was easy. Even Saffi could doit.
“I know you,” she said. “You’re Dimple’s assistant.”
Tiwari seemed caught off guard—but not like she was about to cry again. Thank god Saffi had circumvented that potential disaster. It would’ve completely turned the conversation on its head, leaving her as the guilty party.
“Have we met?” Tiwari asked warily. Kapoor probably wasn’t famous enough to have a rabid fanbase, but stalkers were an issue for any woman.
“I’m a friend of Dimple’s,” Saffi lied, tossing the wet paper towels into the trash. There wasn’t a trace of coffee left behind.
“Oh!” Tiwari said in surprise. “I didn’t know Dimple had friends.” Realization of what she’d just said seemed to dawn on her. “I didn’t mean—!”
“She shouldn’t,” Saffi agreed, leaning back against the sink and crossing her arms. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her own performance. How actors did this and still had the gall to take themselves seriously, she couldn’t fathom. “She’s always so busy, no time for anything but work.”
Tiwari laughed like it was the truest statement she’d ever heard. “Don’t be too hard on her. I’ve only worked for her for a few months now, but even I know how much being a lead means to her.”
“She finally did it, huh?” Saffi asked.
“WithInsomnia,yeah! It’s about time people started recognizing her talent.”
The way Tiwari said it, practically sparkling, made Saffi wonder what kind of woman inspired such devotion. Her mind began working faster than she could keep up with it. Flashes of rivalries and dead actresses at the bottom of stairs.
“Sorry,” Tiwari said, looking genuinely confused. “How do you know her, again?”
“We worked the same temp job a few years ago,” Saffi said, figuring it was a safe bet. Most actors had side jobs.
“You’re from California?” Priyal asked a bit skeptically.
It seemed that despite her best efforts, Saffi couldn’t pass for a local as well as she thought she could. “Arizona originally,” she said. It was always best to stick as close to the truth as possible.
“Oh wow, does an Arizona driver’s license really have the Grand Canyon on it?”
