Absentmindedly, she brushed a finger over her knuckles. They were nearly healed now, just a few days later. As though they’d never bled in the first place. Dimple almost wished she’d been left with some sort of scar, but it seemed she was eternally cursed to carry invisible wounds.
“Hey, even if I’m not invited, can I still come with you to the Oscars?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Dimple asked, taking a sip of her drink. Matcha again. It left behind a strong aftertaste, but she’d found herself growing to likeit.
“ObviouslyInsomniawill be nominated. Especially after it did so well at TIFF.”
Dimple set aside her drink. “Sure, Priyal. If we get nominated, you can come with me to the Oscars.”
With that answer, she seemed to be content. “My phone’s been buzzing for ten minutes, do you mind if I take a break?” Priyal asked, stretching.
Dimple waved her off, instead picking up her script. It wasn’t until Priyal gasped a few moments later that Dimple thought to wonder why, exactly, her phone had been so active.
“Saffi is—?” Priyal asked. “Oh, Dimple.”
So the article had finally broke.
Dimple didn’t dare read it, but she knew it had to be done. With Saffi’s credibility destroyed, this was the only way Dimple could keep her promise. Saffi would never look at Dimple the same way, yes, but maybe in turn she would finally see everything and everyone that had been holding her back from her true potential. The proof was right in front of Saffi, if only she looked. Dimple’s career had never been better, the public adored her. The effort had been worth it in the end.
There were no steps forward but this one. If Dimple could go back and do it again, she would. The show must goon.
“Didn’t you say she was your friend?”
Dimple attempted to discern Priyal’s expression, but she was facing away from her. “That was a cover for the investigation. I had no choice but to go along with it.”
It was clear that Priyal was shaken up by this. Dimple wondered if she was reconsidering stepping into the spotlight now.
“But you were so convincing,” Priyal said.
“I’m an actress, Priyal,” Dimple replied easily.
“No, I’ve seen you act. It wasn’t like that.”
“People reach strange heights when it comes to life-or-death situations.”
“That sounds terrifying,” Priyal said, although she didn’t sound completely convinced. “I wish I could do something to help.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Dimple said simply.
“And the killer—do you think it’s—?”
“Hector Olsen? I do.”
“But he hasn’t been convicted?”
Dimple shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Thanks toher.” Priyal said it like a curse.
Dimple didn’t respond. Hadn’t she already done enough damage to Saffi’s character?
There was a knock at the door, which was odd considering they were the last two people left on set. Priyal was still reading the article, so Dimple went to answer it. If the news had broken, then there was a very good chance that it could be a lingering cast or crew member attempting to comfort her.
But when Dimple opened the door, it wasn’t a coworker waiting for her. It was the cool barrel of a gun pressed hard against her forehead.
Dimple stilled, hand frozen on the doorknob.
“Who is it?” Priyal called out.
