When he smiled, his teeth shone brightly. Dimple’s heart dropped.
The other man—Atlas—handed Dimple a black, gold-embossed business card etched with both of their names. She attempted to take it, but he held steadfastly on, a strange expression on his face. It was only when Eli cleared his throat pointedly that Atlas finally let go. Now neither of them would look at her.
The business card didn’t lack in quality, made from an expensive card stock, and he did seem to have a thick stack of them in his wallet; all signs that they were telling the truth. Dimple pretended to read over it as she continued to study the investigators in her periphery. They seemed comfortable standing next to each other, complementary even. Atlas’s scowl, Eli’s grin. One green-eyed and the other dark brown.
Her sweaty hand slipped on the doorknob, drawing Eli’s scrutiny. His pleasant expression didn’t falter, but it was clear that he was paying closer attention now. Could he tell, somehow? She couldn’t help but worry that a drop of Irene’s blood might’ve made its way onto her skin. Would it be incriminating to check?
“Apologies, but do you carry identification?” Dimple asked.
The men exchanged vaguely surprised looks, but Dimple figured it wasn’t too out of character for a woman living on her own.
“I’m guessing you haven’t heard of us, then,” Eli said.
She’d been half hoping the request alone would send them on their way but, albeit hesitantly, the two of them produced a pair of California driver’s licenses. Dimple didn’t have one of her own, so she couldn’t speak for authenticity, but all the information seemed to match. It was the best she could hope for.
“I’m sure you’re a very busy woman, but I promise this won’t take up too much of your time. Can we come in?” Eli asked, tucking his wallet away and taking a step forward.
Dimple took half a second to collect herself. She reminded herself that she’d been mentally preparing for this since the party ended. Just because she’d been expecting the police rather than private investigators didn’t mean there was any reason to panic. This was better, in some ways. These men had no authority over the law. Theycouldn’t arrest her, which meant there was no concrete evidence against Dimple. Not yet, at least.
“You may,” she said with shakiness that she didn’t have to fake. She opened the door wider, an invitation. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”
“No—”
“I’ll have a tea—”
Atlas and Eli spoke at the same time, neither seeming particularly moved by her show of hospitality. Dimple acquiesced, making her way into the kitchen, and trying not to mind the way the two immediately began sleuthing around her apartment.
“Thanks.” Eli accepted the mug, exhaustion evident in his tone. “We have so many of these interviews, I hardly have the time to breathe between them.”
So she wasn’t the only suspect. Unless it was a bluff to lure Dimple into a false sense of security.
Even though she’d given them plenty of time to get settled before she sat down in an armchair, the men took their time getting comfortable, organizing their folders and fluffing the couch cushions. Where her apartment was colorful and mismatched, the men were twin voids of blandness attempting ineffectively to blendin.
Dimple wasn’t a fool; she could recognize a tactic when she saw one. They were waiting for her to speak first, to willingly give up information on her own. More than that, they were destroying her carefully curated pillow placement. Atlas’s gelled brown hair didn’t move an inch—that was more unnerving than anything else. Every bone in Dimple’s body was hardwired to rise to the challenge, to refuse to give in, but she couldn’t afford to do that now. Not when she actually had something to hide.
“Is this about Irene’s party?” she managed to grit her teeth and ask when the silence reached its most unnerving peak.
“It is,” Atlas said, suddenly perfectly comfortable. Eli, however, continued to squirm for an additional moment before settling down.
“Do you mind if we record?” Eli asked.
He held out a silver device and when she shook her head, hepressed a button and set it down at the center of her coffee table. A light in the corner blinked red. Not so dissimilar to a ticking bomb.
“What do you remember from that night?” Atlas asked. He stared straight down at the notebook open in his lap.
Dimple wrung her hands together. The character she was portraying—Innocent Dimple Kapoor—would be anxious in a setting like this, she decided. Because Innocent Dimple wouldn’t have been expecting anyone at her doorstep. While she would’ve noticed strange behavior and unrest at Irene’s party, she hadn’t seen the body and thus had no idea as to the severity of the situation.
With the story fresh on her mind, the words came easily. “I got there around eleven, I believe. It was the usual drinking and dancing—at least until the police arrived. I’m not quite sure when that was, but I didn’t get home until about five in the morning.”
As she spoke, the sound of Atlas’s pen scratching paper filled the room. Another tactic. Dimple would bet anything he wasn’t inking down more than meaningless squiggles. There was no point, they were already recording the conversation.
“Do you know why the police were called that night?” Eli asked.
Dimple furrowed her brows in thought. “I’ve only heard the rumors.” She began smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in her sundress, the picture of innocence. “I think I saw an ambulance?”
“You think?” Atlas prodded.
“I don’t know. It was late and I was drunk,” she said, closing in on herself.
