The elevator dinged again, and Dimple followed Jerome out, making sure the doors didn’t close on him as he stumbled. He charted the way to what she hoped was his hotel room, using the wall for balance. He didn’t even bother to ask why she was following him. Perhaps he’d forgotten that she was there.
The topmost floor was reserved for suites. Dimple could tell by the fewer number of doors—more square footage for each room. It was nice up here, the furniture newer, the windows taller. It could’ve been her imagination, but even the carpet seemed brighter, the wall sconces shinier. Dimple wondered why only Jerome had been given a room on this floor. Dimple was the lead actress. If not her, then who? She couldn’t help but wonder if Chris Porter would’ve been put on this floor were he there with them. The thought left behind a sour taste.
Dimple almost bumped into Jerome, who’d come to a stop in front of a door. “Is this your room?” she asked.
He grunted again.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re behaving this way?”
Jerome ducked his head, shoulders shaking. Dimple frowned and moved to stand in front of him. He looked like he might be throwing up—or about to. She began scouring the floor for a trash can when Jerome let out a low, choked sound and Dimple realized he wasn’t sick. He was crying.
She hovered in front of him, watching horrified as tears escaped. His sobs only grew louder, echoing up and down the hallway. Dimple winced, glancing over her shoulder to ensure they were still alone.
“Give me your key,” she hissed.
Jerome didn’t respond, so Dimple scanned his pockets, fishing the card from the right one. She opened the door and shoved him inside, allowing it to slam shut behind them. The room was at least twice the size of Dimple’s. He had a dining table, for god’s sake. She allowed Jerome to flop onto the bed while she stood in direct line withthe exit.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked again.
Jerome let out a chorus of broken sobs. Dimple scanned the room for tissues, freezing when she spotted a bottle of champagne, a bouquet of vibrant flowers, and a box of chocolate-covered strawberries on the desk. A thick, folded piece of card stock told Dimple that it was compliments of the Toronto International Film Festival organizers. Her fist clenched impulsively, crinkling the paper.
She hadn’t been expecting an answer, so when Jerome slurred, “I shouldn’t have done it,” she was more than a bit taken aback.
“Done what?” Dimple asked, turning to face him.
“Insomnia,” he said, through hiccups. “There were signs everywhere.”
“What do you mean? Everything’s gone better than we could’ve imagined,” Dimple said with a frown. “I heard there might even be an Oscar or two in store for us.” Actually, it was Priyal who’d told Dimple that and it wasn’t clear if she had a source or if it was her usual overeager self. It was very rare for this genre of film to be acknowledged by the Academy, but apparently its reception at TIFF and the general excitement surrounding it were spelling good things for the future.
“Irene died,” Jerome snapped, and Dimple took an instinctive step backward. “Chris killed someone. And no one cares.” He picked up a pillow from his bed and threw it as hard as he could at the wall. Dimple’s heart thudded. She inched closer to the door, noting that she could use the chair as a shield or weapon if needed. “We keep pushing and pushing, and for what? The movie’s good but so what? Once everyone finds out what we did, it’ll all be over. We should repent now before it’s too late.”
Dimple, who’d been about to reply, shut her mouth with a click. Rage built up inside her until it threatened to consume her whole.
Jerome had been the one to reach out to Dimple the second he found out Irene died. He was the one who insisted they move forward despite Dimple’s protests. And when Shyla had spoken up, he’d been the first to bring up saving face by donating a portion of theproceeds. He had no right to act this way now. Not when he got champagne and flowers and chocolate-covered strawberries and Dimple got blamed for Chris Porter’s mistakes. He hadn’t thought twice about coercing an innocent woman to take on the role of a dead one. If this was all it took to send him spiraling, he wouldn’t last a second with even a fraction of Dimple’s nightmares.
Like this, he was a liability. Dimple knew from personal experience that his breakdowns would only get worse from here. She thought about the wrap party on set and how carelessly he’d spoken about his manipulations.
People already felt far too comfortable publicly berating Dimple for the things she wasn’t responsible for. If it were to be discovered that she’d taken on Irene’s role—willingly or otherwise—both she and Bardoux would go down together. His blatant disregard toward her was almost more enraging than his hypocrisy.
Jerome went deathly still atop the covers. “We’re all going to hell,” he said solemnly, the anger draining from him. “Every single one ofus.”
That was the one thing he was right about.
Dimple tossed the hotel memo pad and pen at him. It bounced on the bed and hit him square in the forehead.
He made a sound of protest. “What was that for?”
“Why don’t you try writing all this down?” she suggested. “It might help you feel better.”
He shook his head. “No, no, no, no one can find out about this.”
Dimple pulled her lighter free from her pockets and flicked it to life. “So we’ll burn it after,” she said.
Jerome’s expression lit up. That was all it took for him to grasp the pen and paper and begin scrawling out his secrets. Dimple leaned against the desk, watching him. There was a balcony to her right, the sun shining brightly through the glass doors. Dimple contemplated how easy it would be to coerce him outside—to push him over the edge.
As much as she wanted to, Dimple wasn’t a monster. She did what she had to in order to survive. And Jerome didn’t need to die toensure her well-being.
All she needed was the email he’d sent her long ago and the note he’d just finished writing. Dimple was patient, she didn’t mind waiting for him to pass out, snatching the note from his limp hands. Her contacts in the media could take it from there.
