Meanwhile, Dimple’s heart thudded even faster, the pit in her stomach opening so wide, she feared it might collapse in on itself. Her hands were visibly trembling now. She could feel every camera lens trained on her. Every hair on the back of her neck stood upright. She understood now why Jerome had cracked. If this was how she felt in the safety of her seat, how much worse did it feel onstage? To stand up there and pretend to be virtuous in front of all these people?
The next audience member began reciting their question, but Dimple was hardly listening.
How had everyone forgotten that Chris was a killer when his character in the movie they’d just watched met such a gruesome and fitting end for that very same reason? All it took was checking into a fancy rehab—more akin to a resort than anything else—and he wasin better standing than ever before. Dimple was blamed for not making a statement. Dimple was blamed for not offering Chris enough support in his recovery. Dimple was blamed for associating with Chris at all when he himself faced no consequences.
She couldn’t stand another minute ofit.
Ducking forward, Dimple stumbled her way out of the theater. She didn’t bother looking back at the crowd, too afraid of what she might find there. Or rather, too afraid that her face might betray her own turbulent emotions.
The back exit that she took led to an empty hallway. At the end of it was a bathroom sign. She nearly tripped over the fabric of her dress as she made a break forit.
Shoving the heavy door open, Dimple flung herself back against it, blood-red dress spilling over white tile. The glacial climate inside the bathroom compared to the temperate theater sent a shiver down the entire length of her body. Short breaths echoed across the small space.
The first thing that came up when searching her name online were photos of herself on the red carpet. Priyal had already reposted some of the best ones. Dimple looked into the mirror at her left. Her hair frizzed up in odd patterns, her mascara smudged. She might as well be a completely different person than the woman on her screen.
There was already a video of her during the standing ovation. Her fingernails dug into her biceps as she watched. It was her face. It betrayed her every emotion, despite how hard she’d attempted to control herself. How hadn’t everyone immediately clocked her for the fraud she was? Dimple’s stomach dropped. Had she similarly given away her true feelings while Jerome discussed Chris? Was that how the audience member had clocked her disregard? There weren’t any videos of that exchange yet—nor of her stumbling out of the theater—but that only made the itch under Dimple’s skin worsen. This wasn’t how she wanted to be remembered.
She paced the length of the bathroom before stuffing her phone back into her pocket and wrenching the sink tap on. This was all wrong. She was supposed to show Saffi—to show herself—thateverything she’d done had been worth it in the end. That all you needed to achieve greatness was the drive to do so. That she was finally done with setting fires.
The water was cold when she shoved her hands under the spray, and it did nothing to soothe the invisible ache deep within her. Soap foamed and water splashed, running up her sleeves until they too were wet.
A damp stain formed at the front of her dress.
This was too familiar.
In the mirror she saw a pair of innocent brown eyes. Falling.
Falling.
Dimple shouted, fist coming up and slamming against the mirror with all her force. The action came of her own volition, yet she gasped when the glass cracked, spiderwebs creeping up in every direction. Something tickled. Blood, probably, trickling down from her knuckles onto her fingers, dripping onto the floor.
It had been months since she’d relapsed. Of course Irene would choose now of all times to trouble her again. Was Chris haunted by his mistakes? Dimple doubted it. She tried to see her reflection through the cracks, but it was too distorted to make out.
The bathroom door clanged open, and Dimple inhaled sharply, cradling her injured hand to her chest. She hoped whoever it was wouldn’t immediately pinpoint the blood on the floor or the cracks in the mirror, giving her time to cleanup.
Her wishes went unanswered.
They cursed, their footsteps echoing as they edged closer. In the back of her mind, Dimple could recognize them by gait alone, and if not that, then surely by their voice. But with the mirror so distorted, her mind could conjure up whatever sick fantasies it desired. Suddenly, she was a child again, just as aware that the blows would come as she was that she couldn’t stop them.
Dimple could sense the arm coming for her and reached out to intercept it, slapping it away. She was unable to repress the violent shudder when she finally made contact. It wasn’t until the hand closed around her wrist that Dimple registered its gentleness. Sheopened her eyes, met Saffi’s gaze, and breathed. Which made no sense—Saffi was the last person she wanted to see in this context.
“Are you done with your meltdown?” Saffi asked. Dimple’s blood was smeared across her palm, but she didn’t seem to care.
Dimple attempted a scoff, but it came out as more of a choke. Saffi leaned over to inspect the stalls, likely checking that they were empty. A wave of shame washed over her. She should’ve thought of that—what was wrong with her?
“Can I help you?” Dimple asked, attempting to yank free, but Saffi only held on tighter.
Gradually, her heartbeat began to slow. There were no ghosts here. Only Dimple and the sickening twist of humiliation in her stomach. She didn’t know who to blame. The heckler in the audience or her traitorous, unfortified mind?
Saffi seemed content with her findings. “You look terrible,” she commented, studying Dimple’s bloody knuckles. “Did that guy really get you this worked up?”
How Saffi could stand to look at her like this, she would never understand. Had the fire in her finally been put out? Dimple was too scared to check.
“I came in here to make sure you weren’t up to anything,” Saffi said when Dimple didn’t respond. “But clearly you’re as much a danger to yourself as you are to anyone else.”
Had Saffi been checking for dead bodies along with living ones? The thought was amusing. Surely Saffi didn’t think Dimple would be stupid enough to allow herself to be caught red-handed. Not even in this state.
“Well,” Dimple said. “Have you reached a satisfying conclusion?”
