Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Light-filled lanterns shine among the trees surrounding the property when I at last make it through the winding roads and arrive at the farmhouse wedding venue. I take in the sloping hills and the hint of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.
The barn is less a rustic structure to house animals than a full-fledged wedding venue with the accoutrements of a barn. The roof is painted dark in the illusion of rustic shingles. A vintage weather vane with a rooster sits on top. An artistic metal structure of a tractor is perched by the white fabric tent for dinner. From my car, I hear a pianist playing in the distance. Other attendees pull in and make their way to the festivities. Which I should be doing too. I’m reapplying my lipstick when I hear a knock on my car window. I flinch. But it’s Azar. Of course. When will my nerves finally steady themselves?
“You look beautiful,” he says when I step out.
“As do you,” I reply. “Tuxedos suit you.”
“Cell service was spotty most of the drive. This place is in the middle of nowhere. Now I’m doubly glad I came.”
“So you did come to babysit me.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Azar.” I press my palms against his chest. “I. Do. Not. Need. Looking. After.”
He places his hands over mine. “You can’t blame me for caring.”
A jolt of electricity runs through me at his touch. I feel a strange sensation, as though the background is blurring, as though it’s only the two of us here. As though he feels it too. It’s the setting, I remind myself. The twinkle lights in the trees. The music floating through the air. But with his hands over mine, I feel unable to look away.
“Who knew rural Georgia held such charms?” he says when we make our way to the wedding tent. The sun is beginning its descent. The mountains are tinged with lavender and pink.
“It’s as rural as you can get without leaving the metro Atlanta area. Did you see the apple orchard next to the property?”
“Shall we go apple picking?”
“I don’t think we’re dressed for the occasion.” I tug his bow tie.
A waiter swings by, proffering smoked trout on toothpicks. I take one and nod approvingly.
“Not sure if it’s because I ran today or what, but I’m starving. This could probably taste like three-day-old mackerel and I’d love it.”
“Did I hear correctly? You went on a run?” he asks.
“I’m not sure I appreciate the insinuation! I ran a half-marathon last year.”
“I know. I was there. You finished top ten.”
“Hopefully now that everything is behind me, I can finally get back to my old routine.”
Another server brings by what he describes as grilled rosemary chicken on mini skewers.
“Not bad,” Azar says as he takes another one.
“Did you say ‘not bad’ to what was probably a twenty-dollar bite of poultry?”
“I call it like I see it,” he protests. “Money can buy expensive food, but it doesn’t mean it’s exquisite.”
I move to reply, when I see him glance down. His phone is buzzing. He picks it up and reads the number. His face pinches.
“Everything all right?”
“I have to take this call. One second.” He strides toward the parking lot.
I look at the growing number of guests mingling on the lawn and check the time. My heart skips a beat. The festivities are running a few minutes behind.
It’s normal, I remind myself. Timely weddings that go off without a hitch are the exception, not the norm. She’s getting ready. She’s not in danger. Farhan is dead.
And yet…
I walk the perimeter until I spot a door partly opened on the side of the farmhouse. Tentatively, I pull it wider. There’s Tabitha, the bride. A hairstylist is putting the last touches of baby’s breath in her hair. There are no creepy letters on her desk. No strangers lurking by the doorway. She’s fine. She’s safe. Of course she is.
Tabitha spots me at the edge of the door and brightens.
“Nura!” She gestures for me to come inside. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“You look like you stepped out of a fairy tale.” Her shimmering gown flows like liquid. “This is a gorgeous venue. I’m so happy for you both.”
“Thank you for helping me find my Timothy.”
“It’s a pleasure to match people as perfect for each other as you are.”
“Just a heads-up, there are at least five more people here who are probably going to tackle you and beg you to take them on,” she says. “Sorry in advance?”
I laugh and give her a hug. I give her space to get ready and prepare for her big day. Back outside in the main grassy event space, I glance in Azar’s direction. He’s still on the call, off in the distance by the artistically rendered tractor. I pull out my phone to check messages—then I click Zayna’s profile. I look at the newest photo, which is not a selfie. Instead, it’s a leather suitcase on a bed with striped sheets. Inside, I glimpse folded jeans and a floral makeup bag. The caption: Checking out Helen Resort and Spa with a special someone this weekend.
A special someone. My chest constricts.
“Sorry about that.” Azar approaches me.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” His expression is strained. “Shall we get to our seats? Looks like they’re getting ready to begin.”
“Azar. Who was on the phone?”
“Oh, that was Zayna.” He shrugs but doesn’t offer more.
I fold my arms and look at him until he gives in.
“It’s nothing. We’re going to Helen tomorrow to do some hiking and check out that waterfall. She got off her shift early, so she rang me to see…”
She called like a girlfriend does. To see if he was home. If she can come over to his place so they can head out in the morning together. For the romantic weekend getaway she was so excited about that she had to post it online for the world to see.
The warmth and lightness inside of me flickers off. This is why he was of two minds about coming to this wedding. He knew he had another obligation. He’s here out of pity. I’m a nagging kid sister who needs looking after.
“Does she know you’re here? With me?”
“It’s no big deal.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets. Doesn’t reply.
“If she didn’t like me before, she’s going to hate me now.”
“She’ll come around.”
She’ll come around. Not a denial. She does hate me.
“And if she doesn’t come around? Then what?” I ask. “Things are serious between the two of you. If she doesn’t approve of us, what happens next?”
“What do you mean?” Azar’s eyes flash. “You and me. We’re friends, right? But I need more. And I finally found someone I connect with. Zayna…she’s great. At the end of the day, you and I will always be friends, but there’s more to life. At least, for me there is, but I guess you wouldn’t understand that not everyone is like you, obsessed with work to the point where I have to come along to weddings to spend any reliable time with you. Not everyone is happy to be alone for the rest of their life.”
I can’t breathe. It’s like I’ve been slapped. He knows how important my job is to me. I thought he understood. And happy to be alone? How can he not see that I had found someone too—but that someone wasn’t interested in me? Violins play Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” I shakily glance at the crowd settling in. I need to find my seat. I’m here to work. I need to get my game face on. But how?
“Wait,” he says. “That came out wrong. I—”
“I think it came out exactly right.” The music picks up in volume. “I have to go.”
“Nur. Listen—”
“Just leave, Azar. I’m serious. Go to Zayna, have a great trip together, and leave me alone. I have work to do.”
Before he can reply, I turn. I walk past the glittering trees to the ribboned white seats facing the altar. I sit in the back row.
Tears prick my eyes. I’m not going to cry. I can’t cry. Not here. Not now. If he leaves, good. I’m glad. It’s not like I’m waiting for him to tap my shoulder. To slide into the seat next to me. To take my hand in an implicit apology…
The minutes tick by. He doesn’t come.
The bride walks down the aisle toward her starry-eyed soon-to-be husband. I think back to the other day at Azar’s place—how he’d held me when I cried. And this evening, when I’d gotten out of the car. The way he’d taken me in. His hands over mine. His eyes gazing into my own. In that moment, I could have sworn something was shifting between us. I was wrong. It’s like Khala says: We can’t trust ourselves to be objective about those we care for.
I scan the crowd, wondering if anyone saw our argument. Azar was here to be my cover—the matchmaker with her dashing partner—but if a potential client was watching, they wouldn’t have witnessed two people in love; they’d have been witnessing the end.
Deep breath. In. Out. It’s game time. I cannot look like a frazzled mess. I focus on the nuptials, which are beautiful. Even more beautiful given that the last wedding related event I attended ended in disaster. I take in the personalized vows exchanged over a violin quartet. The flower girls hold pink and violet flowers to match the deepening colors of the sky.
After, I grab a seat under the sprawling white tent, strategically choosing a spot near the gas heaters going at full blast. It’s June, but there’s an undeniable chill in the air.
“Hey, Nura,” a man’s voice says.
I look up, my smile automatically in place to introduce myself to the potential new client. But it’s not a new client. It’s Logan Wilson.
“Nice wedding.” He sits down at the empty seat next to mine. Casually. Calmly. “I got turned around on the drive over and nearly wound up in the middle of an apple orchard. I didn’t even know you could grow apples this far south.”
He’s got a leg crossed over his knee. He’s talking to me as though he belongs here.
“What are you doing here?” Disbelief is rapidly displaced by anger.
“I know. This is a bit unorthodox. But I figured now was as good a time as any for us to chat.”
“Who told you where I was?”
“That’s not important.”
“I’d say it’s extremely important.”
“I have my sources, but”—his expression grows somber—“we really do need to talk, Nura. For your sake as much as mine.”
“How very altruistic of you.” I grip my clutch so tight my knuckles go white. How long has he been here? Watching me? Did he wait until Azar was safely gone before pouncing? Did he witness our fight? I look around, feeling exposed. Most people are still lingering by the cocktail tables. Servers are setting up dinner. No one else is near us. “I’ve already been through enough drama to last me several lifetimes,” I say through gritted teeth. “I don’t need any more stalking.”
“Stalking?” he repeats. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but stalker’s a first.”
“I saw you getting lunch at the chaat house,” I tell him. “You were two doors down from where I was. Are you trying to tell me that was just a coincidence?”
“Oh.” He startles. “Well, sort of. I didn’t know you were there, but yes, I was talking to people in the area who are in the marriage space—for background.”
“So you admit it.”
“I admit to being a journalist. Not a stalker,” he replies. “Your story keeps getting bigger and bigger. I was of two minds coming out here to meet with you. My editor keeps telling me to do a write-around, but I need your perspective to do this story justice. When I read your email, I figured you were up for talking. I thought this was simpler, so you didn’t have to set aside a separate time to speak, since you’d mentioned how busy you are.”
“My email?” I repeat. “Does gaslighting pay off in your line of work?”
The anger almost drains out of my system. Azar was right. It was too soon to get back in the game. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with Logan on top of everything else.
“Wait!” He hurries after me as I march out of the tent. Toward the parking lot. “I’m not trying to play games here. I did get an email from you. Earlier today.”
I swivel toward him. “I’m not rewarding your harassment.”
Logan pulls out his phone. He hands me the device.
My stomach lurches. There is an email with my name in his inbox.
The subject heading: You win .
With a trembling hand, I click the email.
While my first and most ardent wish would have been for you to leave me alone, it is clear that will not be happening. I’ll consider your offer to cooperate if we can arrange for your questions to arrive over email. My life is extremely busy and I do not have the time nor space to set aside to meet you.
“I take it you didn’t send this?” he says into the silence.
“No. I don’t use Yahoo Mail.”
“Ah. Well, that explains a lot.” He clears his throat. “Shit. This is…this is wild.”
He keeps talking, but blood throbs in my ears. It’s over. It’s supposed to be over. Farhan is dead. Who is sending emails impersonating me? Could it be Basit, in a sick twist of vengeance? Or does someone just want to watch me squirm? And if Logan fell for it, how many others have gotten emails they believe to be from me?
“This will make for some fun clicks when your piece posts, won’t it?”
“Nura.” He looks me square in the eyes. “I’m not interested in gotcha journalism. I also happen to find it highly disturbing that someone impersonated you. I’m keeping up with the online chatter,” he continues, “and I have a police source who’s told me you were involved on the night of Farhan’s death. I also know that it was an associate of yours who killed him. I’m not trying to be salacious, but it’s clear there’s a story with a capital S here. Wouldn’t it be helpful to have a journalist on your side? To get the story down right?”
“You mean you.”
“I won’t be the only one making the connections; it’s only a matter of time before all of this is public information. I’m here because I want to help you. Really.” He glances around and then at me. “To be frank, I’m concerned. Whoever sent me that email is trying to con me too.”
“Whoever it is, their sights are set on me, don’t worry. I—I have to go.”
“Nura. Please. We need to talk. I have—”
“Please.” I hold up a hand. My voice cracks. “Not now.”
I walk away. He does not follow.
Something is wrong, I text Borzu once I’m safely inside my car. Are you home? I can come to you.
I turn on the car and try to keep my hands steady. I thought I was safe. I thought the threat of danger was behind me. Now the small sense of security I’d allowed myself to feel is gone. There’s no way I can go back to my place tonight. Not after seeing this.
The engine rumbles to life. I pull out of the parking lot. The two-lane road is deserted. There is no city light pollution. No streetlamps and no stars. The moon is shrouded by clouds. I flip on my high beams.
My conversation with Logan roils inside of me. Someone at the police station leaked the details about Farhan’s death to him. It was only a matter of time, I know that. It’s like he said, this information will all go public eventually. But it’s happening sooner than I expected. Or at least sooner than I feel ready for. My stomach hurts thinking about Darcy. When she finds out the press is sniffing around, it will turn her world upside down, but I can’t keep it from her. I’ll call her from Borzu’s place. She needs to hear this from me.
A whirring sound buzzes in the car. I graze my fingers over the dashboard, but before I can locate the source of the sound, a sudden stream of wiper fluid floods the windshield, blurring my vision.
What the hell?
I grip the steering wheel. How did I hit the fluid? I press the wipers but nothing happens. Instead, another stream attacks the windshield.
This can’t be happening. It’s pitch black outside and I’m in the middle of nowhere. Again, I slam the levers to activate the wipers. Nothing. It’s fine, I try to tell myself as panic builds. Cars can glitch. I’ll pull over. Troubleshoot. Peering through the glass, I try to make out a safe spot to stop through the blurred screen. Suddenly, my dashboard lights up. A woman’s operatic falsetto blasts through the speakers.
My ears ring. My very smart car decides to completely fall apart now, on a country road in the middle of nowhere? Through the streaming liquid blasting the windshield, I make out a spot to park a few paces ahead. The hill starts sloping downward. I slam on the brakes. Nothing happens. There’s no resistance. It’s as though there are no brakes at all.
Tears stream down my face. My teeth chatter. My entire body is shaking. How is this happening?
Abruptly, the music stops. Haunting silence rings in my ears. The car bounces harder and harder over bumps in the road, gathering more speed as it careens downhill. The landscape shifts around me.
Lights flash on the other side of the road—a car coming at me. The odometer won’t stop climbing. And now I’m beelining toward the oncoming car. I jerk the wheel away. My car swerves. Lurches toward what appears to be a glowing reflection on an iron gate, getting brighter and brighter.
Oh sh—