An alarm sounded and Priyal pulled out her phone, turning it off with a sigh. “I have to go,” she said regretfully.
“She’s in good hands,” Saffi said mirthfully.
“Are you sure you don’t need me to stay?” Priyal asked.
“You said you had plans.” Dimple had a feeling it was an audition, but she doubted Priyal would admit that to her current employer.
“I can cancel them!”
“I’ll be fine, Priyal.”
Only the police, the investigators, and Priyal were under the impression that Dimple had been attacked. It wasn’t public knowledge yet that there was a killer going around. According to law enforcement, it would cause too much widespread panic. The secrecy helped in her case, though, so Dimple gladly went along with their wishes.
“Just promise me you’ll keep your phone on,” Priyal said, relenting. “If you don’t reply, I’ll get worried. I might kick your door down at three in the morning.”
“Now, that I’d like to see.”
Priyal swung her bag over her shoulder and, with one last glance at Dimple, left the same way Saffi had come. And then the two of them were alone. This was the first time they’d seen each other since the hospital, but if Saffi wouldn’t bother exchanging pleasantries, then neither would Dimple.
“Cute,” Saffi said. Her fingers brushed Dimple’s wrist brace. Not even hard enough to jostle, but Dimple felt the phantom touch in her bones. “You want me to sign it?”
The rough fabric wrapped tight across her wrist felt like a prison. Dimple forced politeness into her reply. “You’re a natural. We’ll make an actress out of you yet.”
And then the shape of Saffi was slipping past her farther into the apartment. It was this kind of easy confidence that made her so enthralling. Taking ownership of any space as though it were her own. They plunged into a terse silence as Saffi took in Dimple’s mismatched interior design, the hum of kitchen appliances just loud enough to emphasize the tension in the air.
“Don’t feel the need to strangle me today?” Dimple couldn’t help asking, relishing in the way Saffi turned to her, brows furrowed, before understanding dawned.
“I didn’t strangle you,” Saffi said. “I was trying to regulate your breathing.”
“By strangling me.”
“You were having a panic attack.”
“It is a blessing you never pursued a career in psychiatry,” Dimple replied dryly.
“I’m not the one who lies for a living,” Saffi said. She ran a finger along the spines of Dimple’s VHS collection, pulling one free from the shelf. “You do realize that everything is online nowadays?”
But where was the appreciation in that? Dimple had been collecting old films since her college days. Her mother’s collection had been destroyed in the fire—the only thing she regretted about the incident—but she’d slowly been able to build up her catalog again.
It wasn’t just technology that was left behind in the past, but also the art displayed upon it. How was it that so many people went to visit theMona Lisaevery day, but had completely forgotten so much of the dramatic arts? Was there no one left to appreciate the masterpieces that had been forgotten simply because they were not available to stream online? Dimple liked to imagine that she alone was keeping them alive, immortalized through time. But she didn’t expect Saffi to understand that.
Dimple grasped the VHS, but Saffi held on, patiently awaiting an explanation. A childish performance of tug-of-war—it amused Dimple far more than it should have. Even more when she realized Saffi had chosen a horror film. One of her favorites.
“I like being able to hold them,” Dimple replied, which was also true. “Is that too cliché?”
Saffi took a moment to consider before letting go. “Kind of fitting, actually.”
That Saffi claimed to understand her to any degree almost made her laugh. Dimple returned the movie to its rightful place and took the time to study her counterpart in her periphery. Saffi dressed identical to Atlas and Eli—same expensive black suit, exuding formality. At least until she opened her mouth. But they diverged in where Atlas and Eli were twin voids, Saffi had a certain vividness to her. She seemed oddly at home amongst Dimple’s mismatch of shapes and colors in the same way a flower looked more beautiful in a bouquet.
“So, how can I help you?” Dimple tried for casual.
Saffi leaned against the bookshelf, studying her. “How would you feel about assisting with the investigation?”
Dimple’s hands, which had been busy smoothing an invisible wrinkle in her dress, froze. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear. Just moments ago, she’d been trying to think of ways to infiltrate Andino and Taylor Private Eye. She’d even considered breaking and entering. But to be invited? It sounded too good to be true.
And perhaps it was. Perhaps this was Saffi’s attempt at entrapping her. After all, an innocent actress like Dimple Kapoor would have no desire to be involved in a murder investigation, especially given what had just happened to her. In all her amusement, she’d almost forgotten Saffi was just as much a performer as she was.
“I doubt I’d be of any help to you,” Dimple replied carefully. “Besides, wouldn’t that only provoke whoever it was that targeted me?”
