“It’s one of my favorite movies of all time. The terrible script and cinematography only made your performance more impressive. I could tell the other actors had given up, but not you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone deliver lines like that.” Atlas spoke so quickly, many of his sentences sounded like one word. He was breathless by the end. And then he kept going. “My mom and I are the only ones in my family who like old Hollywood films. We used to watch them all the time when I was younger, before my parents divorced. I don’t know what it is, but your acting reminds me of that.”
Dimple let out a shaky breath to collect herself. She’d liked to imagine she would’ve been the same, had she gotten the chance to meet her mother. They’d had the same taste in films as well.
And apparently, so did Atlas. No one else had noticed the effort Dimple had put into that role. Hours after set arguing with the director, with the writers, running lines with other actors in the hopes that it would somehow counteract everything else she couldn’t control. She’d been determined to prove Julie—and the other actors,everyone—wrong. That one good performance could save a production. But in the end, the joke had been on her.
“Thank you,” she said, and she meantit.
He seemed to want to say something more, but Dimple wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle it. It wasn’t right to face such sincerity with the mask she’d donned. She shattered the moment, turning away and pinning the autograph back to the board.
Atlas could monitor Dimple more closely as she moved to his desk, so she carefully regulated her expression to one of neutrality.
There was a photo frame. A sister, a brother, and two parents standing on opposite ends. They all had the same thick eyebrows Atlas did. Taped to his computer were more photos: a white coat ceremony for his sister, another where his brother wore a Harvard Law stole. But, curiously, none of his own graduation. Moreover, he seemed extremely young compared to his siblings. Somewhat detached from the group, even amongst family.
Dimple looked down at the photo frame again. There was another picture tucked behind the same glass. Younger versions of Atlas, Eli, and Saffi. The three of them were sitting on the floor, seemingly unaware of the camera as they sifted through papers. Eli had an arm resting on Saffi’s shoulder as he read the document she was holding. Atlas was leaning so close, all three of their foreheads were brushing. If Dimple hadn’t known any better, she would’ve thought this was the family photo. She abruptly looked away. This wasn’t what she was here for.
Dimple scanned the documents scattered atop the dark wood. Someone’s criminal records, but she couldn’t tell who was listed as the perpetrator. Dimple’s history was clean, so it couldn’t be her. She moved suddenly, reaching for something invisible and making a show of accidentally bumping into the mouse.
The computer screen lit up with a profile. She didn’t have the time to read the name before Atlas’s wide frame blocked her view of it, but she would recognize that face anywhere.
Hector Olsen.
A man difficult to forget. He’d approached her for work once in the past. On first impression, it had been beyond exciting. Back then,Dimple had neither an agent nor a manager. In fact, she had yet to land a speaking role. Yet somehow Hector had seen her in a commercial and come out personally to ask her to play the lead in a movie he was directing.
Even at twenty-one years old, Dimple hadn’t been that naïve. She couldn’t afford to be. There were too many questions he couldn’t answer—why he wanted her or what he expected in return. She knew what predators looked like and Hector Olsen was nothing if not one. And Dimple had long since declared she would never be prey again.
She’d been careful, but not careful enough. She’d thought she had to entertain anyone in the business that was interested in her, even if she wasn’t in return. She didn’t think to be wary when Hector far too easily accepted the fact that she didn’t drink. Or when he introduced the bartender as an old friend of his. Not even when the liquid in her glass started to leave behind a strange aftertaste.
Dimple’s head was spinning. Her senses heightened, overwhelming her: the uncomfortable wooden bar seats, the patrons she’d immediately noticed to be of the older male crowd, the sticky floors.
Hector Olsen’s grating laugh.Having fun? I knew you’d change your mind once you got a taste of it.It took her that long—him quite literally confessing what he’d done—for her to realize how much of an idiot she’d been. The sickly sweet smell of the bright pink drink he’d promised was a mocktail turned her stomach.
“Thirsty?”
Dimple flinched violently, her arm swinging up to knock the glass away. The space in front of her flickered as soon as she made contact. It was not a cocktail glass. Just water from the carafe Andino kept in his office.
“I am so—” she began, flustered.
“Don’t worry about it.” Andino laughed. He’d managed to catch the glass at the last moment so only a bit of water had spilled onto the floor, which he quickly cleaned up. The back of Dimple’s hand still throbbed where she’d smacked against it. “You just looked a little pale, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Dimple was horrified. She was no stranger to her nightmaresbleeding into reality, but Hector Olsen hadn’t bothered her in years. As soon as she’d realized what had happened, Dimple had stumbled away to the bathroom, emptied the contents of her stomach, and pretended to sip on her drink for the rest of the night. She was careful not to make a bad enough impression that he’d blackball her and not a good enough impression to make him want her. Of all the villains in her story, Hector was nothing more than a speedbump.
“Shall we get started?” Atlas asked.
He didn’t seem to suspect anything was amiss, so Dimple took that for the opportunity it was. She nodded and sat down in the armchair opposite his desk.
“So, last time we talked about headlocks…” Atlas paced in front of her. It sometimes seemed that he had too much energy for even his large frame to contain.
But Dimple was somewhere else entirely.
All of Hector Olsen’s wives, all young brown women, were actresses who’d once worked under him. And years later, the allegations had come out, just as Dimple had suspected they would. Forget the list on Andino’s whiteboard, nobody made more sense as a suspect in Irene’s case than Hector Olsen. Not even Dimple herself.
Years of misconduct and the man walked free. And now the opportunity to put him behind bars had landed so perfectly in Dimple’s lap. Was it not her duty to see it through? Perhaps with this, she could bring peace to all the women who’d been hurt by him.
Hairs rising on the back of her neck, Dimple whipped around. The movement was so sudden that it startled even Atlas. But there, peeking in through the ajar door, was one of the interns. The girl—Mia, if Dimple remembered correctly. How long had she been standing there? She looked terrified. Dimple forced a pleasant smile, but it did nothing to soothe the girl. And then it hit her.
Mia knew.
So this was Saffi’s plan. She hadn’t confided in Atlas and Eli, choosing a girl barely out of her teens to bear that burden instead. Dimple’s heart pounded. She’d been careless to assume that Saffi didn’t have measures in place in the event of her death. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.
