A hand clamped itself over Dimple’s mouth and she was suddenly made aware of her own erratic breathing. The pounding in her skull. The ache in her wrist.
Saffi’s shadowed face gradually phased back into view. “Relax,” she hissed. “Do you want the nurses barging in here with tranquilizers?”
Dimple could see her own reflection, pale and helpless, in Saffi’s irises. When she finally let go of Dimple’s mouth, Dimple breathed in so fast that her lungs threatened to explode. She didn’t dare look over at the heart-rate monitor.
It would be okay. This was fine. Any reasonable person would panic when met with such a direct confrontation. Even Innocent Dimple Kapoor—who’d just survived a very traumatic attempt on her life. She could still salvage this.
“What is wrong with you?” Dimple choked out, horrified. Though the artist in her couldn’t help being impressed by Saffi’s delivery, the buildup to the big reveal.
Saffi blinked innocently. “What?”
“Are you suggesting I asked for this?” Dimple held up her bandaged wrist.
“I’m suggesting that there was no one for you to ask in the first place.”
She knew. If there was any question before, it was clear now.
This woman was here to fix Atlas and Eli’s mistakes, and she wouldn’t be making quite as many of her own. It made sense now why Saffi had left them and America behind. If only she’d stayed gone.
Still, she couldn’t be all that good of an investigator if she was still at the beck and call of men so far her inferiors.
Dimple’s uninjured hand clenched the scratchy fabric of her blanket. “You’ll have to understand, given where we are right now, why a statement like that might anger me.”
Saffi reached out, pinching a blood-red rose petal between her fingertips and plucking it free from the stem. “And you’ll have to understand that I don’t give a shit. I didn’t get into this line of work to make people happy.”
“Why did you, then?”
“I love a good puzzle,” Saffi replied flippantly.
“Is that what I am to you?”
“You’re nothing to me.”
But there was something else. Something in the glint of her eyes. As though Dimple was a shiny new toy for her to play with. It was infuriating.
“If you think I’m a killer, then why not arrest me?” Dimple challenged, jaw clenched.
Saffi grinned, clearly delighted. “I never said you were a killer, but if the shoe fits…”
“This feels extremely unethical,” Dimple muttered, not even having to fake the queasiness in her tone. Her head was floating somewhere above her body.
“Not illegal, though,” Saffi said. “Can’t say the same for your offenses.”
“Do you have any intention of taking my statement at all?”
“That’s what the police are for.” Something must’ve shown on Dimple’s face because Saffi adopted an insufferable tone. “Don’t give me that look. They probably ate up every word you said. It’s only fair. I’m sure that’s how you imagined this encounter going.” She gestured between the two of them.
“What is this, good cop, bad cop?”
Saffi seemed to consider it for a moment. “If the police were any good at their jobs, then maybe.”
Dimple had never met anyone so antagonistic. As though reading her mind, Saffi flicked the rose petal at Dimple. It floated down in a slow arc, landing softly on her cheek.
“I should let you rest before you have another heart attack,” she said. “We’ll catch up soon, okay? This was almost fun. Don’t go doing something stupid and ruin it.”
With that, she turned and left the same way she’d entered. And despite how much Dimple desired the contrary, she knew this would not be the last time they met. She sagged against her pillow, shoulders sore, and absently lifted the petal from her cheek. Soft, velvety. She crushed it within her fist. Next time, she would be much better prepared.
Chapter Seventeen
