“Are you listening?” Atlas snapped.
“Yes,” Priyal responded immediately. “Whatever you say, I believe you. Just let us go, please.”
She didn’t believe him. Dimple was a bit awestruck at the extent of her assistant’s loyalty. Priyal would sooner believe that a madman had broken into her trailer to spew made-up nonsense than think for a moment that Dimple might actually be a killer.
“Worst of all, though, is what you did to Mia,” Atlas said, all his attention back on Dimple. “She was just a girl! What kind of monster are you?”
Dimple blinked in confusion. “Mia? What?”
“Don’t play dumb. They finally identified her body—it was so badly burned, they had to use DNA testing to figure out who she was.”
The eyes she’d felt on her at Olsen’s house—they had been real? Dimple shivered, sick to her stomach. “She’s dead?”
“You really are an incredible actress.” Andino huffed a humorless laugh. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d believe you.”
“I didn’t. Iwouldn’t.Ask Saffi if you don’t believe me.”
If Mia had been there, that meant Saffi was the one who’d sent her after Dimple. She didn’t care much what Andino thought of her, but Dimple felt she was losing her mind. For a brief, hysterical moment she wondered if she really had planned the girl’s death. But she couldn’t have, not if she had no idea Mia had been there.
“I saw the letter you sent her,” Atlas said. “Did you know that sayingsorrycounts as an admission of guilt?”
Dimple felt her blood simmer, and then boil. Rage overtook her. “That wasn’t for you,” she spat.
No, Dimple wouldn’t choose anymore. This time, she would forge her own path. Dimple kicked with all her strength, which Atlas wasn’t expecting. She took the opening to reach for the gun, pointing it away from her face, but Atlas managed to gather his bearings enough to latch onto the handle with a death grip. Wrestling with him, she tried to loosen his hold, but it wouldn’t budge. Thinking fast, she lifted her knee and caught Atlas in the stomach.
She expected that to be enough for him to let the gun go. Instead, his hand instinctively clamped tighter and engaged the trigger. A gunshot echoed across the trailer.
Priyal shrieked as both Dimple and Atlas fell to the ground with the force of the rebound. The gun clattered somewhere in the distance. Dimple immediately lunged for it, ears ringing. She’d expected Atlas to follow, but when her fingers closed around the cool metal, she realized she no longer had a pursuer.
Heavy weight in her palm, Dimple rose to her feet. Atlas was kneeling, mouth hanging open as he stared at the back wall. Dimple followed his gaze, stomach already flip-flopping before she landed on the scene awaiting her.
It took a moment for it to sink in. Blood splattered all the way up beige walls, some of it even reaching the couch. Dimple’s stomach lurched. Come to think of it, there was a metallic scent permeating. The source: a small figure curled into herself against the wall. Her shoulders rose and fell with each pained, shallow breath. Dimple couldn’t tell where Priyal had been shot, but there was already enough blood loss for it not to matter.
The scene shifted for a moment, and it was Shyla Patel lying at the bottom of a ledge, stage blood splattered all around her. Isaac Klossner, two stories down. Irene Singh at the bottom of a staircase.
“No.” The voice was so small and hoarse it took a moment for Dimple to realize it was she who’d spoken. “No, no, no.”
She dived to the ground, holding the girl’s face between her hands. That was when she remembered that she was still holding the gun. She couldn’t put it down, though. Atlas hadn’t moved since she last saw him, but it was clear now what he was capable of. Dimple settled on angling it away from either of them.
“You’ll be okay,” Dimple said nonsensically. “Everything is going to be all right.”
“He was lying,” Priyal rasped, almost incomprehensible. “Right?”
Dimple froze. Something had given her away. But then she realized this was Priyal in a haze of blood loss and adrenaline. She had no idea what she was saying.
“Yes,” Dimple agreed. “Yes, he was lying. Look at him—look at what he did to you.”
Priyal coughed again.
“Let me see,” Dimple demanded, trying to keep the panic from her tone.
After a moment’s hesitation, Priyal uncurled. Her hands were covered in blood and there was a large pool of it in her lap. So much that Dimple still couldn’t tell where the wound was. The hysterical part of her lamented the loss of Priyal’s new clothes—the new image she was finally embracing. She pulled a blanket from the couch and instructed Priyal to apply pressure.
“It hurts,” she said.
Dimple pushed the blanket harder against the wound. “I know, but you need to keep this here.” She couldn’t tell if Priyal understood, but she did lift a weak hand to at least hold the fabric in place.
She scanned the room. It had to be somewhere nearby.There.Priyal’s phone on the ground beside her. Dimple reached forit.
