“Priyal,” Dimple began, meeting her attacker’s gaze unflinchingly. “Hide.”
“What?”
It seemed that she finally turned to face the door because she gasped. Something heavy enough to be a phone clattered to the ground.
“Hey,” Priyal said, voice wobbly. “What’s going on?” From her peripheral, Dimple watched the girl slowly rise to her feet and press herself flat against the wall.
“I wasn’t expecting you to have guests,” Atlas Andino said, cold as stone.
“What are you doing?” Dimple asked, at a complete loss. Clearly something had changed between him asking her to take care of Saffi and now, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what. Atlas pushed inside, forcing her to walk backward. “What is it you want?”
“The truth,” he responded.
He didn’t act like a madman. It wasn’t as though his speech was slurred. He seemed resolved and that was almost more terrifying. This was nothing at all like the man who’d once looked at her as though she were the sun.
Dimple’s heart was startlingly still. Empty. She couldn’t die like this, in the trailer of the film she had yet to wrap. There was so muchleft to do—awards to win, promises to keep, legacies to create. She’d only just started living.
The door slammed shut behind Atlas. When Dimple’s calves hit the couch, she sank dutifully into the cushions. The barrel of the gun followed her down.
“You act innocent, you sign autographs, you bat your eyelashes,” he said. “You’ve been laughing at me this entire time, haven’t you?”
Dimple’s blood ran cold. He knew.
The gun pressed harder against her temple. “You manipulated me!” As though it was her fault he was so malleable.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asked, laughing. “I believed you. I stood up for you against the people I love because I thought you were a good person.” He scoffed. “At least I was right about one thing. You’re the best goddamn actress I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re the killer, aren’t you?” Priyal asked shakily. “It’s not Olsen, it’s you.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Atlas said, gun trembling against Dimple’s forehead. “That honor goes to your friend here.”
“Priyal,leave,” Dimple tried weakly.
“Move and I’ll blow your friend’s brains out,” Atlas said as though he were reading the weather report.
Priyal didn’t move an inch. “What do you want?” she asked a bit hysterically. “Money? I’m sure we can get it for you—however much you want!”
“Tell her what you’ve done,” Atlas ordered.
“Atlas—” Dimple tried.
“Tell her!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
All her life, Dimple had been haunted by impossible decisions. Suffer her aunt and uncle’s abuse or become a murderer. Cover up Irene’s death or subject herself to being forgotten. Protect Priyal’s image of herself or die. Dimple was tired of setting fires only to put them out later.
“Fine, then,” Atlas sneered. “Should I tell her? Where should I start? How about when you killed your competition, Irene Singh?”The ghost of his smile flickered in front of Dimple’s eyes. Months ago, they’d been comparing notes on their favorite films.
“Or how about when you killed an innocent waiter? Why—just because he figured out what you are?” Atlas continued.
Isaac Klossner was far from innocent. Saffi wouldn’t have gotten the details wrong like this. Dimple’s blood thrummed in her veins. Atlas had looked at the sun so long, he’d lost his vision.
“Or maybe when you framed Hector Olsen for murder and burned his house down?”
No mention of her aunt and uncle. Even now, Atlas looked at her through a lens. In many ways, Dimple only existed through Saffi. The true, unfiltered version of her. It left her a little smug, the thought that someone like her was only comprehensible through someone like Saffi.
Dimple then realized, horrified, that the only way Atlas had come to know this information was through Saffi. Either she’d told him, or he’d gone through her files. The former was incomprehensible. The latter was unforgivable.
