Of course.
Six digits—perfect for that of a date. Dimple wasn’t so deluded as to think it would be something as silly as a date important to either of them. No, Saffi was far pettier than she was sentimental. She would know Dimple wouldn’t be able to hold back her curiosity. There was only one six-digit code that incriminating. A juvenile trap, and Dimple was certain she’d never had an impulse this self-destructive before. But she had to know. Hesitantly, she punched in the code to Hector Olsen’s security system.
The buttons flashed green.
Dimple reached in to retrieve the message. She’d been half expecting it to be a trap—or worst of all: empty—but was pleasantly surprised when there was only the familiar crinkle of memo paper. Another performance, another gift.
She brought the note up to the light. The penmanship was messy almost to the point of illegibility, but Dimple could make it out in the end. Saffi’s trademarked smug tone came forth as she read.
Dimple,
So you know the code to Olsen’s security system. I wonder why thatis.
I should be on a plane back to California by now, but I’ve been thinking a lot about what we’ve talked about. Aren’t you the one always telling me to ask for more? So, I’ve decided I want to make you work forit.
Prove me wrong. And show me how to moveon.
-S
The note left a hollow feeling in Dimple’s chest. She traced the words with her fingertip. Being known was never a good thing. Fussy children were put in their place. Killers were put on death row. And Dimple had once been both at the same time.
She had thought of several different methods to kill Saffi—a push down the stairs, over the balcony—but in the end, she’d done exactly the opposite.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Dimple had known all along that she wouldn’t have been able to go through with it here. It felt like a disservice. Besides, she’d made a promise to her.
The show must goon.
Dimple shredded Priyal’s note. Then, thinking twice, she burned the entire stack of memos, letting the ash gather in the trash can.
It wasn’t until she walked back to the desk that she realized she’d left Saffi’s note unmarred. Dimple ripped a line down the middle. Panic suddenly seized her, but it was too late. Still, she found herself tearing off the corner of the note—the part that read-S—and slipping it into her pocket. Only then did she burn the rest ofit.
Saffi did not yet know that once Dimple Kapoor accepted a role, she embodied it until the end. With a steady resolve, Dimple lifted the hotel phone and dialed the familiar number of a well-known media company.
—
When Dimple finallyleft her room hours later, just before breakfast came to an end, she realized that theDo Not Disturbsign had been posted outside her door. An odd warmth blossomed in her chest, but it was quickly replaced with guilt. She stared at the sign for a moment, hesitating, but removed it from sight before she could dwell any longer.
The elevator dinged, opening on the ground floor, and just as Dimple began making her way out, she brushed shoulders with a familiar man.
“Jerome?” she asked in surprise.
He didn’t answer. Uneven patches of stubble graced his chin and his posture was slouched. He swayed where he stood and smelledstrongly of bourbon. Dimple resisted the childish urge to pinch her nose. Everything in her veins told her to duck away before his attention shifted to her.
She chanced a look outside just as the elevator doors began to close again. Half a beat from making a run for it, she changed her mind after seeing the curious onlookers in the lobby. They were craning their heads for a better look, which was cut off when the doors shut. They’d likely already photographed Jerome in this state and the last thing Dimple wanted was similar treatment. People were already upset with her for ducking out of the theater early last night. Rumors of a bad breakup with Chris were spreading like wildfire.
Breakfast was almost over anyway. Room service was expensive, but it wasn’t as though Dimple didn’t have the money now. She resolved to stand at the opposite end of the space and hope Jerome didn’t look her way.
A few seconds of only his heavy breathing reminded her that neither of them had pressed any buttons.
“What floor?” Dimple found herself asking. Jerome’s head snapped up, but he didn’t respond. Dimple’s voice had come out hoarse the first time, so she cleared her throat and repeated the question.
Jerome dragged his stare over to the row of buttons. He looked for a few seconds before reaching a hand up and aiming for the topmost one. The first couple times he missed entirely, but he hit close enough for it to light up on the third try. The elevator lurched and began to rise just as Dimple caught a flash of red—his hand. Fear spiked in her chest. Just what had he been doing?
But upon closer inspection, Dimple realized that it was the fingernails of Jerome’s left hand that were bleeding. He had picked at them so harshly—and didn’t seem to be stopping now.
“Have you been drinking all night?” she asked. She was tempting fate, so she kept her attention on the man’s limbs, trying to keep the judgment from her tone.
Jerome didn’t look at her this time, only grunted, but Dimple couldn’t let it go. What would he confess if confronted by someone in this state? He was already adding unnecessarily to the drama as itwas. The rest of her questions, however, could wait for when they were no longer trapped together. She allowed her floor to pass without complaint, riding with Jerome to his destination.
