It was no different after she left either. Investigations across the ocean weren’t all murder mysteries and scandal—at least not with the few connections Saffi had started out with. There was still thesame boring paperwork to get through, there just wasn’t anyone to keep her company while she did it. Her parents had contacted her, but the number of calls quickly diminished when they realized the filial daughter they thought they knew had fled, leaving a shell of a person in her place. Andino and Taylor had tried calling too, but she’d declined until eventually they stopped trying. Saffi didn’t know what she’d been expecting—justmore.
Then came the first birthday card.
It took several years of maturing to recognize that nobody had betrayed Saffi. If anything, she’d been the betrayer. But leaving had been good for her. Saffi never would’ve been able to grow—in her confidence, in her knowledge—had she never left in the first place. But now that she’d done all she could, it was time to go back.
She hailed a cab and tried not to think too much about where she was going.
“So, where’d you fly in from?” the cabdriver asked in that distinctly West Coast drawl.
She responded in a flurry of French, enough to make him give up on the prospect of a conversation.
When she finally arrived at the PI agency, even though some part of her still expected a grand reunion, fireworks and all, she knew better now than to be disappointed when the building was dark. She paid the driver and stepped out of the cab into the chilly night.
“Are you sure this is the right address?” he asked.
Saffi didn’t bother with a reply, crossing the empty parking lot with the overconfidence of an ignorant tourist. It was after-work hours, which meant there wasn’t a single car in the parking lot. Double-checking over her shoulder that the cab was gone, she removed a bobby pin from her hair and began picking the lock. It didn’t take long. She’d have to speak to Andino and Taylor about that. The security system inside the entryway was a nice touch, though, even if they were using the same code as the one at their old PI agency.
She locked the door behind her, taking a moment to adjust to the dark. Goosebumps prickled under her suit jacket—she’d forgotten how much she missed American air-conditioning.
The office was clean, but cluttered, all warm tones. A small waiting room with two couches greeted her immediately inside, but she bypassed it for the hallway. There were two open doors to her right, leading into what looked like a conference room and a break room. To her left were four doors: three shut and one wide open.
All three seemed to be offices, so Saffi claimed the open one for herself—her new home for however long the investigation would last. There was no use checking in to a hotel if she’d be spending most of her nights here anyway. Besides, Andino and Taylor wouldn’t mind.
She’d spent the entire plane ride poring over the preliminary information she’d been sent, so she was glad to find case files and a silver recording device already waiting for her on the desk. Saffi shrugged off her suit jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. Unlike Andino and Taylor, she had made murder investigations her bread and butter. Saffi almost felt bad for the culprit, who had likely grown used to running circles around the law enforcement here. But now that Saffi was in America again, this killer’s days were numbered. It would only be a matter of time before they realizedit.
Chapter Four
January 27, 2026
It was earlyin the morning when the pounding at Dimple’s door began. Anxiety crept up her throat, making it difficult to breathe. Her phone clattered to the ground behind her.
“Dimple?” a familiar voice rang out.
She exhaled. It was Priyal. Who had she been expecting? Irene? Dimple would’ve laughed if her heart wasn’t still threatening to beat out of her chest. Slowly, she grasped the cool steel of the doorknob.
With several excuses prepared on the tip of her tongue as to why she hadn’t replied to anyone in days, Dimple swung the door open. But instead of confronting her, Priyal hurried inside, round cheeks flushed with effort. Short and lively and always in a rush. That was Priyal Tiwari.
“I thought I gave you the week off,” Dimple said.
“I’m so sorry to barge in unannounced like this,” she exclaimed, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.
Priyal pressed a lukewarm coffee cup into Dimple’s hands as she made herself at home in the otherwise still apartment. A canvas bag tossed over the back of the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, she looked even more exhausted than Dimple felt.
Somewhat mechanically, Dimple appraised the paper cup.Something with matchawas her guess. Priyal was always in a matcha mood during winter. She took a tentative sip, inhaling a mouthful of grass.A matcha latte—she’d been right. Definitely not the iced coffee that Dimple always asked for, but Priyal’s temperamental memory was no reason to waste a ten-dollar drink.
“It’s lovely, thank you, Priyal,” she said, setting it down on her coffee table.
“So?” Priyal prompted.
“So what?”
“Did you hear the news?”
Dimple’s heart sank. The story of Irene’s death must’ve broken just like the investigators had said it would. Although, perhaps talking about this would put off the inevitable conversation Dimple had to have with Priyal about her termination.
“I can hardly believe it,” she replied solemnly.
“You better believe it.” Priyal grinned. “Because it’s true!”
