“We completely understand,” Eli said placatingly, shooting Atlas a look. The poor guy actually seemed remorseful.
After a beat, Atlas shut his notebook with a snap. “Listen, the story’s gonna break soon whether we like it or not, so we might as well tell you,” he said, still not meeting her gaze. “The reason the cops showed up that night is because Irene Singh is dead.”
Dimple didn’t have to fake the way she froze at their words. It was a strange thing to so suddenly confront the information she’d been keeping tucked away in a corner of her mind. Her hands fisted in the fabric of her dress. Before this, a small part of her had still held on tothe delusional hope that it had been nothing more than a nightmare. Now it was cemented into reality. Irene Singh was dead, and Dimple Kapoor was the only person who knew why.
“What?” Dimple asked softly. Her voice broke unintentionally, but that only played into the characterization.
She’d thought perhaps a little too much about how she should react to this news. It wasn’t the first time she’d come to the realization that Irene was dead, but it felt like it, nonetheless.
Because she couldn’t be dead. This wastheIrene Singh. As much as they had irritated each other, Irene had always seemed untouchable. How could it be possible that after standing in Dimple’s path for so long, she could disappear just like that? Dimple would never be invited to one of her extravagant parties again. Along with Irene died the only connection she had to the glittering, opulent, star-studded side of Hollywood.
But Irene would live on in the minds of her admirers. In her wildly successful modeling career and her budding acting debut. Whereas it would make no difference if Dimple were to drop dead right here and now, not if there was nobody left to remember her. She would end up just like her aunt and uncle; insignificant. All the pain she’d gone through culminating in nothing at all. Living a pointless life, in many ways, was much worse than death.
Every one of Dimple’s nerves ignited when Eli coughed. She could feel every ridge, dip, and crevice in the fabric of her armchair. “How?” she asked breathlessly.
“There was an accident,” Eli explained.
“She was found at the bottom of a staircase with her head cracked open,” Atlas said.
Dimple flinched, the horrifying sound of Irene’s neck slamming to the stairs ringing in her ears. The picture of Irene in her mind felt even more vivid now than it had at the scene of the crime. There was an itch deep under her skin that she tried to scratch, but to no avail.
“If it was an accident, then why are you here?” she challenged, swallowing around the urge to vomit.
The two of them seemed to have an entire conversation with justtheir eyes. Briefly, Dimple wondered what that was like—to know someone so well, you didn’t even need words to speak to them.
“That was my mistake—I was referring to the fact that the police ruled it an accidental death,” Eli said. “Of course, as far as we’re concerned, this is still an open investigation. Irene’s parents hired us to look into it and we plan to do so to the best of our ability.”
Eli’s expression was nothing more than a practiced calm, but Atlas’s gave away far more than he probably realized. It was likely they both agreed with the police’s initial thoughts. Dimple wondered if she could push it further, to see how much they were willing to give away.
“I see,” Dimple replied, the tension in her shoulders loosening. “And what do you think?”
Instead of answering, Eli said, “We’ve determined the time of death to be between the hours of twelve thirty and two thirtya.m.Do you have anyone who could confirm your whereabouts during that time?”
Dimple did have someone who could do that. The only problem was that person was now dead. She imagined that Atlas and Eli assumed she had several alibis lined up—and after a long night of socializing, she definitely should have.
“I tend to let myself go more than I should at these things,” Dimple admitted, trying not to gag when her mind helpfully conjured up the vile taste of alcohol. “I can hardly remember the night, let alone who all I spoke to.”
Atlas sighed and rubbed his temple as though her response was unsurprising. It was exactly what Dimple had been counting on. Who stayed sober at one of Irene’s parties? It was unheard of, blasphemous even.
Eli picked up the recording device and deactivated the blinking red light. Atlas clicked his pen sharply, slipping it into his coat pocket. And then they stood up in unison. Eli gave a perfunctory, “Thank you very much, Ms. Kapoor. You’ve been a great help.”
“Is that all?” Dimple asked, following their example.
“Unless you have something to add?” Eli prompted.
She shook her head and tried not to seem too relieved. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”
They were both halfway out of the apartment when Atlas suddenly turned back, pinning Dimple with an intense expression she couldn’t place. It was the first time he’d looked at her all morning. Dimple attempted to remain calm even as fear seized her. Instead of throwing out an accusation, though, Atlas wordlessly held out his notebook and pen.
“Yes?” she asked hesitantly.
“Could you—” he mimed a sweeping motion in the air with his hand.
It took a good few seconds frozen in place to comprehend what exactly he was asking for. Even then, Dimple was certain she’d misunderstood.
“I’ve seen all your movies,” he muttered in awe, as though she were the sun.
Eli muttered something about professionalism that Dimple didn’t quite catch. Her face heated. She didn’t think she’d been in anything that could constitute ashermovie. Nor had she done any work that would warrant signing an autograph. And yet, when she closed her hands around Atlas’s notebook and pen, they didn’t dissolve into a specter.
