Consequently, an alert heralding a new article was waiting for her when she got back to her apartment.
BREAKING: Actor Chris Porter Checks into Rehab, All Charges Dismissed
Every molecule in the room came to a standstill. Dimple didn’t move, didn’t breathe. She read the headline once, twice, thrice, and it didn’t change.
Could it really be so easy?
Dimple scanned the article for new information, squinting as the brightness burned her retinas, but it was filled with nothing but glowing praise for the fact that Chris was getting the help he needed. No mention of the innocent he’d killed, and none in the comments either. Just like that, public perception was already shifting. Chris was being praised for the very thing Saffi had fled the country for.
Would people be so quick to forgive if it had been Dimple behind the wheel? If she’d confessed to her crimes, she knew for a fact that her career would never recover. And yet she doubted Chris even had enough time to perspire before everything was dropped as though it had never happened. When Dimple spotted her name nestled within a long paragraph, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. The words on the page blurred and danced, morphing and changing shape.
BREAKING: Dimple Kapoor, Debut Lead Actress of “Insomnia,” Indicted on Charges of Murder
Dimple dropped her phone like it had burned her. It landed somewhere on her rug, but it might as well have vanished. Her breathing came out short, chest constricting as the world shifted. With uncooperating legs she staggered to her knees, hands reachinghaphazardly for stability and finding none. The ringing in her ears reached a fever pitch. Suddenly, it was she who was facing trial. And it was Irene Singh on the witness stand in front of her.
“Dimple Kapoor is a murderer,” she said as blood leaked steadily from her head, trickling down her face like tears.
The jury, the shadowed figures of her aunt and uncle, laughed and laughed. Dimple searched for a shred of normalcy, for the briefest glimpse of an understanding face—
“Saffi,” she breathed.
If anyone were to understand what it was to kill as a byproduct of ambition, it would be her. Saffi was unflinching, staring right into Dimple’s soul.
She stepped closer and reached out just like she had back in her office. Slow, deliberate movements. Dimple almost flinched when cold fingers traced her neck, but found that she couldn’t move. It hadn’t been like this before. Saffi’s touch had always felt electric, like the lights dimming before the start of a film.
Hands closed around Dimple’s throat without warning, squeezing tight. Every scream, every wheeze, every protest died before it could be set free. She thrashed around, scratching at the hands, leaving rivers of red in her wake, but they did not relent. Saffi did not relent. It reminded Dimple of fingers brushing against her wrist brace, proof of her confinement.
Dimple, behind bars.
Dimple, heart pounding, sitting on a cold slab, waiting to die by lethal injection, then by electric chair, then by a push down a grand staircase. Each time, it was Saffi administering the punishment. Chris Porter’s mocking laughter echoed in Dimple’s ears, his heavy, leaden arm permanently slung across her shoulders.
Scrambling blindly for her lighter, Dimple counted backward from ten. Cold plastic against skin snapped her back to reality. She nearly passed out in relief when she confirmed that the name in the headline belonged to Chris Porter—not her.
These episodes were becoming worse. The waking nightmares had never been able to touch her before—something that happened more often than not recently.
When her breathing finally evened out and the ringing in her ears subsided, Dimple took a deep breath and felt the world gradually stop spinning around her. There was nothing she could do to put an end to the bouts of mania, but her hands itched regardless. She picked up the pages of an upcoming audition and read them over yet again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
August 8, 2026
Dimple had goneto five parties over the course of the past few weekends and it wasn’t because she’d finally reached rock bottom. On the contrary, Dimple was working. This was the culmination of months of training. Andino and Taylor Private Eye had even provided her with an earpiece she could easily hide under her hair. She was an actress to her core, so she took her role seriously.
“Do you see anyone watching you?” Eli’s staticky voice came from her ear.
This was a complicated question. Dimple leaned with her back against the wall, squinting under the dim lighting to scan the crowd once again. This function couldn’t hold a candle to any of Irene’s. There was something so heedless, so utterly unremarkable about the whole event. One man could wear a three-piece suit and the other shorts. One could carry a can of beer and the other a glass of wine.
There was also the telling itch under her skin of eyes trained on her. Spurred on by the dating rumors, everyone wanted Dimple’s version of the events leading to her co-lead’s murder investigation. She could either say that their relationship had been a publicity stunt or allow people to assume that she’d broken up with Chris. Neither was a great option, and nobody would believe that they’d never been together in the first place. She remained vague, like Julie had suggested, and suffered through the treatment. Her refusal tocomment on the dropped charges, however, was a statement in and of itself. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, but of the main cast, only Dimple and Shyla had failed to voice their support.
Some stared outright, some threw a few fleeting glances every now and again. They only came up to her if she was stationary for too long, mostly giving her space so long as she looked busy. These were not the stares she was on alert for.
“No one’s looking,” Dimple finally replied to Eli.
Saffi and her team were growing impatient, but Dimple knew exactly who they were waiting for. She had yet to find any sign of Hector Olsen. It was exhausting, not to mention embarrassing. She was twenty-seven going out every weekend by her lonesome.
If anyone caught her speaking to herself, she was sure she’d die of humiliation.
“Still nothing?” Atlas asked.
