Hector Olsen’s house was two away from the Singhs’ mansion.
The very breath was stolen from Dimple’s lungs as she looked over the exterior of what had once been Irene Singh’s home. This view from outside the gate was vastly different from the interior. While Dimple had come to countless parties here, she’d never lingered over the expansive driveway or sloping rooftops. All she could ever think about from out here was how high the electricity bill must be and how much it must cost to keep the water on. From within, it wasmuch easier to feel a part of that world. But there was no one inside now, according to theFor Salesign stamped into the front lawn.
This addition felt more permanent than death. Although, one way or another, Dimple had always known that night would be her last in Irene’s presence.
The universe had decided that only one of them could bring their goals to fruition. All Dimple had done was what anyone would do to ensure she won in the end. She allowed herself a few additional seconds, head ducked, before continuing up the road.
Like all men with too much to hide and the untempered desire to show off, Olsen had fortified his mansion with a gate. Dimple didn’t know the code to enter, but she didn’t need it. The security cameras were aimed at the road, so Dimple found a secluded area and tossed her bag over the fence. California building code made it so fences couldn’t be taller than six feet without a permit, which meant this fence wasn’t more than a couple inches taller than her. That and the jagged stone worked in her favor, allowing her to fit her shoes into the grooves and wrench herself over to the other side.
She felt overexposed. As though anyone could take one glance at her and know she didn’t belong. But the rest of the neighborhood didn’t seem awake enough to take note of her unwelcome presence. And, looking up at the huge house, immaculate lawn, and expensive cars, she didn’t feel so out of place. It didn’t feel so out of reach. Dimple could have this one day.
That day wasn’t today, though, so Dimple tried her best not to stand out. She didn’t gape at the pristinely pruned rosebushes or the luxury cars and didn’t rush like she had something to hide. A camera pointed down from the porch, but like most smart cameras, it was connected to the Wi-Fi network. In all the parties Dimple had gone to, it hadn’t been difficult to find someone who’d been to Hector Olsen’s house and finagle the network password from them. By the time she walked up to the front door, Dimple had already turned off the house’s security system from her phone.
For all her preparations, there was a moment in which Dimple feared the key she’d swiped from Hector’s pocket wouldn’t work, as though the door could somehow sense that she had no businesshere. She didn’t have to worry for long. The lock clicked, allowing Dimple to step into a dimly lit marble foyer that probably cost more money than she’d ever had in her life.
Dimple took a moment to adjust to the darkness. Something was flashing too bright in her periphery and she had to squint to find it. A second security system installed next to the door. She deflated. There’d been a chance Hector would have an additional round of protections in place, but she’d been hoping otherwise.
Closer inspection found a timer stamped across the screen. What had started as one hundred and twenty seconds now read one hundred and ten. The familiar image of Irene’s crumpled body, blood steadily leaking from her head, flashed behind Dimple’s eyelids. But instead of sending her into a panic like it usually did, it reminded her of all she’d been through to get to this point.
The code had six digits—perfect for that of a date. It could be a random number. Part of her wanted to try 123456 to see what would happen. But Hector Olsen was far from an uncoordinated man. He matched his ties to his suits and his suits to his shoes. From the movies he directed to the women he married, he made his choices meticulously and grew upset when they did not measure up to his expectations.
The alarm beeped, now counting down from seventy seconds. Dimple had, of course, looked into Hector Olsen’s life in preparation for this. He had many important dates. His wedding anniversary with his most recent ex-wife, Laila. His estranged children’s birthdays. His own birthday even. But there was only one date he never failed to celebrate. One that he seemed to hold in the highest regard.
With thirty seconds remaining, Dimple punched in the day Hector Olsen had won his Academy Award for Best Director. Her heart stuttered in her chest when the screen flashedAlarm Disabledwith twenty seconds left on the timer.
As much as she wanted to celebrate, she forced her feet to keep moving.
Every hair on her body stood upright, the prickling feeling of being watched that she knew couldn’t be more than a figment of herimagination. Olsen was currently between wives and his many children lived with their mothers, but Dimple still darted around on her tiptoes. She couldn’t make out much with the lights off, but the house was certainly excessive in nature, especially for a solitary man. He had more rooms than Dimple could think up reasons for. But no room mattered as much as the one she was looking for.
Dimple scoured the house for Olsen’s bedroom and found five possible options. She’d been about to turn back when she entered what was easily the largest room in the entire house. All confusion left her at the sight of it. Like most of the mansion, the floors were pale marble, but at the center was a loud tiger-print rug under a California king bed with matching silk sheets.
Dimple scanned along the wall for doors. There, the bathroom, and to the right was his walk-in closet, which was the size of her bedroom.
Setting her bag aside, Dimple got to work emptying the bottom drawer of his dresser. She stuffed those clothes into the other drawers as neatly as possible before emptying her bag onto the ground, scattering her supplies across the tile.
She rifled through the closet for the suit he wore to Irene’s party. It shouldn’t have been quite so difficult to find a red tiger-print suit, but Dimple was beginning to sense a theme in Olsen’s belongings. Instead, she picked a suit at random, designating it to be the one he wore the night he’d pushed Dimple. She laid it flat on the ground.
Then Dimple took the vial of her own blood she’d extracted from her forearm weeks ago and splattered it onto the suit as meticulously as she could with shaking hands. Saffi had seen the bandage—she would see right through this. But she wasn’t the one Dimple needed to convince. While that dried, Dimple finally found the suit from Irene’s party and crumpled it into a ball, shoving it into a flame-resistant bag. She didn’t have any way of obtaining Irene’s blood, but that didn’t matter. All Hector had done to her was push her down the stairs.
Once the blood had dried, Dimple shoved the second suit into the bag and zipped it. She placed that in the dresser and shut the drawer. There was still the matter of the bloody vial, though, which she tookto the sink to clean. There was nowhere to dispose of it, so her pocket would have to do for now.
The police were surely already at the party by now, hopefully arresting Hector for assault, but that wasn’t the issue. The issue, as always, was Saffi.Fingers digging into her throat.She would have no problem pinpointing Dimple’s involvement in this. It didn’t matter what Hector had done, all of Dimple’s hard work would be for naught if she was caught breaking into his home.
Regardless, there was one last thing Dimple had to do. The sight of Olsen’s fist connecting with Shyla’s cheek replayed on a loop in her mind. The brief flash of fear Dimple had caught in the other woman’s eyes had been so intimately familiar. That Dimple had been so instrumental in putting that expression on Shyla’s face left a sour taste in her mouth.
She’d only ever felt resolve like this once in her life, and that had been the day she came home from school to find her house burned down and her aunt and uncle dead.
The paramedics had informed her that they’d burned alive in a drunken stupor, too out of it to feel anything. It only occurred to Dimple now that they’d probably only said that in a misguided attempt to comfort a grieving child. Because surely even drunkards couldn’t sleep through being burned alive. Dimple liked to imagine that with all the alcohol running through their veins, the flames scorched even deeper than it would for anyone else.
Sick of wallowing, Dimple crept downstairs and searched for an outlet she could put to use.
One last fire. Just one more, and then she could finally live.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
August 9, 2026
Saffi stared coollyat Dimple Kapoor, who flashed her a smirk too quick for anyone else to catch. If it weren’t for the fact that they were in a police station, Saffi might’ve throttled her. She wouldn’t be happy for long. Saffi would make sure of that.
