Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-two
“Lay low,” says Amara. “Until I can find you a real lawyer.”
“You are a real lawyer,” I say. Amara is, in fact, a former classmate who went on to law school and holds the record for the second-longest dating streak with Azar. Looking around her office on the forty-second floor of Franck and Carter, the legal treatises stacked behind her, the enormous oak table, and her high-back leather chair, I shoot her a side-eye. “If you’re not a real lawyer, who is?”
“I’m a real estate lawyer. Getting you the lease on the corner of Skylance and Block was easy peasy, but I’m out of my depth here. You need a criminal attorney—I know, I know,” she says upon seeing my stricken expression at the word criminal . “But considering you already got yourself a bodyguard, you may as well get the right counsel for the other type of protection you need.”
Fiona Levi, bodyguard to the stars, is standing outside this very door right now, thanks to Genevieve pulling a few strings. Fiona keeps watch at all times. She trails behind my car in her Lincoln everywhere I go. Fiona—and Gus, who trades shifts with her—has a list of my trusted circle, and other than them, she’s on guard for anyone who so much as looks my way. It’s beyond strange to be followed like this, but I’m relieved knowing someone is keeping a watchful eye out. No more half measures; my harrowing ordeal has ensured I take this as seriously as the situation calls for. I even checked into a hotel last night.
“I can’t believe you’re dealing with so much,” Amara says.
“Me either. How is this my life?” I tell her. “On top of it all, I also have to worry if the police will arrest me. The way they interrogated me at the hospital, I felt like their prime suspect.”
I can’t even blame them. The bracelet the officer had shown me had fooled me too. But once I was home, to my relief, I found my mother’s jewelry exactly where I’d left it.
“It’s why you need to be sure you’re properly lawyered up ASAP,” says Amara. “But don’t freak out. If they had enough to arrest you, they’d have arrested you. Have they asked you to come into the station since the hospital confrontation?”
I shake my head.
“There you go,” she says. “And they did find GHB in your system, didn’t they? You obviously didn’t inject yourself with that, right? GHB can cause memory loss. Whoever gave it to you wanted to knock you out and make sure you wouldn’t remember.”
But will this be enough for them to back off? They may be more careful with flinging accusations, but that’s not the same as moving on. They’re probably digging as we speak, just digging more quietly. And they’re digging because someone wants them to. Whoever did this knew the type of bracelet I had and slipped medication into my purse. They orchestrated my accident. And hurting me wasn’t the only objective. They’re trying to get me to go down for what happened to Lena and Tanvir.
“Any guesses on what happened with the car crash?” she asks.
“Borzu says the car was remotely attacked. Modern cars are basically giant smartphones,” I tell her. “There have been reports of windshield-wiper hacks to prank people, ditto for blasting music…. Hackers can even mess with brakes remotely.”
“Are you still keeping tabs on Logan? I looked him up—it’s hard to imagine he’s behind it, but people can have sides to them we’ll never fully understand.”
“He’s in New York at the moment.”
“Not that those pills are yours,” Amara says, “but even if they were, you wouldn’t be the only one in our fine city with a bottle of oxy on their person. You have an alibi for the day Lena and Tanvir were kidnapped. Your face is on your aunt’s security camera at the exact same time they were taken.”
I look out the window. From this vantage point, the trees dotting the concrete walkways below look like stalks of broccoli. “It’s killing me that whoever is behind this is out there somewhere, watching this circus unfold.”
“It’s enraging. I wish I could help you more directly, but luckily, I can do the next best thing and get you some amazing recommendations. The lawyer I connected Darcy with is top-notch. And, hey, I know you got your kick-ass team for investigating, but we have great private investigators we contract with too. If you want more eyes on this, or anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll help you however I can.”
“It helps to talk everything through with you,” I tell her. “I appreciate you taking an hour out of your billable day for me.”
“Anytime. Let’s hope they catch the fucker behind this as soon as possible.”
—
Darcy and Genevieve are glued to Borzu’s desktop when I get to the office later that day. This is becoming an all-too-familiar sight.
“Any updates?” I ask.
They swivel toward me—bleary-eyed as though they’ve done nothing but stare at the screen until I arrived. Which, perhaps, is true.
“Nura, thank God you’re okay.” Darcy wraps me in a tight embrace. I wince. My ribs are still incredibly tender. The discharging doctor offered me pain medication, but after the accusations hurled my way by the police officers, I don’t even want to touch an Advil.
“Cracked rib. Mild concussion,” I tell them. “The car is totaled. But it could have been much worse. Thank you for cat sitting while I was in the hospital, Darcy. And thanks for sorting out the bodyguard, Genevieve.”
“You were long overdue for some personal security,” says Genevieve. “I should’ve gotten on that way sooner.”
“We thought the threat was over,” I tell her.
“Well, now you have a second set of eyes. And they’re the best of the best.”
Genevieve glances at Fiona, who’s standing outside the office door, leaning against the gray brick wall, her cat-eye sunglasses concealing her watchful gaze.
“Did the police have any insights?” Borzu asks.
“At best, they think I’m an addict who veered off the road. At worst, they think I was in cahoots with Farhan.”
“Could Farhan’s father be behind all of this?” Darcy asks. “He’s got limitless resources. He could easily have people do his bidding for him from afar.”
“I doubt it,” Borzu says. “I haven’t seen any movement to indicate anything’s awry. He’s not exactly smart about encryption with the things he gets up to. If he was behind this, I’d know.”
“Logan feels more likely to be the culprit than Basit. He turned up at the wedding, ” I tell them. “Funny how trouble follows him. He was at Avani’s wedding when the faked papers were slipped into her dressing room. He was in town when someone stole Gertie. Now he’s at a wedding where my car was tampered with?”
“There’s no such thing as coincidences,” Darcy says grimly.
“But his phone pinged him at the wedding at the time of the accident,” says Borzu.
“What difference does that make? He could’ve hacked in remotely from the wedding if he wanted to. Or paid someone to sabotage Nura, no?” Darcy asks.
“Sure, but what’s his motive?” Borzu asks. “He thought you were up for a conversation and came over to interview you. He just wanted to cover the story right. He’s a persistent journalist, but it doesn’t make sense for him to try to hurt anyone.”
“Maybe he put things in motion to create the story of a lifetime,” Darcy says.
“He has all he needs to go viral,” Borzu points out. “He’s been three steps ahead of everyone this whole time.”
Borzu’s right. Despite all the information he has at his fingertips to write an explosive hit piece, he hasn’t.
“When the public finds out about the police inquiry into my whereabouts, and my car accident…” I shudder, imagining the press that will descend upon us. “I might have to permanently move into the Lowen.”
“How long are you staying there?” Genevieve asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“Those are some fancy digs,” Darcy says. “I pictured you as more of a historic B you’re not there right now anyhow. For going out and about, use a burner. At least until we know what’s going on. That way, whoever is doing this can’t detect your movements—if that’s what’s going on.”
Borzu pulls open the cabinet above his desk and grabs a flip phone encased in plastic and tosses it to me.
In my office, I settle into my chair and wrestle with the packaging. I let out a yelp as my fingernail chips. Cursing, I grab a pair of scissors and tear through the plastic. I look down at the black flip phone. This is my life now. I am someone’s prey—weaving and bobbing, trying to survive.
Darcy steps inside my office to go over my agenda for the day. My iPhone buzzes. My heart leaps into my throat. I quickly grab the device, hoping it’s Azar. But it’s not. It’s a text from a client. He’s asking to reschedule our meeting that was set for next week.
“We’ve kept your schedule pretty light,” Darcy tells me as she scans her tablet. “But you do have two weddings coming up. Do you want to still attend?”
“We’ll need to cancel,” I tell her. “Can we send them some fine chocolate and our regrets?”
“You got it.” She scrolls her device. “Shahin’s wedding was up next.”
“The one on Jekyll Island?” I feel a pinch of disappointment. I’d been looking forward to that one. Azar was going to go with me. I’d booked us adjoining rooms.
Other than the occasional text message check-in, we haven’t spoken since my discharge from the hospital. I wonder if he rescheduled his romantic getaway. Maybe that’s where he is right now.
“I’ll send Shahin your regrets,” Darcy says.
“I’ll call her myself,” I tell her.
“You sure?” Darcy asks. “She’s going to be pissed.”
“She is. That’s why I think it’s best if she hears it from me.”
When I call her an hour later, Shahin picks up on the third ring.
“How are wedding preparations going?” I ask.
“Well, thank you.”
There’s a moment of silence. I realize she’s not going to elaborate.
“I wanted to let you know that unfortunately I won’t be able to make it to the wedding. I’ve been in a car accident—I’m fine!—but there are a lot of loose ends I have to deal with. I’m sorry. I was really looking forward to being there.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
That’s it? I’d prepared myself for her trademark dramatic gasp. A plea for me to attend at all costs. Before I can tell her she can pass along my contact information to her friends, she speaks again.
“You caught me at a bad time. We will miss you at the wedding. Be well.”
The call ends. I stare at my phone. Before I can put it down, it rings again. It’s Erica—otherwise known around the office as Yoga Lady. We chatted last week. She took my advice to get a life coach and had just given her two weeks’ notice at her consulting firm, where she was perennially unhappy. I have a list of matches for our next meeting, but maybe she has follow-up questions. This is usually the point in the timeline when people grow antsy.
“I’m afraid I don’t have an update since last time we spoke,” I tell her once we’ve dispelled with the usual formalities. “But I’ll have a robust list of eligible bachelorettes for you when it’s time for our call next week.”
“That’s…that’s not why I’m calling.” There’s a stretch of silence. “This isn’t going to work out,” she finally says. “I can’t do this anymore.”
For a moment I think she’s having second thoughts about quitting her job.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done,” she continues. “The life coach was a blessing. You helped me figure out so much.”
But.
“I’ve decided to take a break from matchmaking.”
You were begging me to speed up the process last week.
“I’d love to know what happened,” I manage to say. “If there’s been some sort of misunderstanding, we can talk through it, clear up any concerns you might have.”
“It’s nothing like that. I want to take a different tack, is all.”
She’s firing me. Kindly. Politely. Firing me.
I think of the faked email. From me to Logan.
“Did you get any kind of out-of-character communication from me?” I ask. “I’ve had someone impersonating me. It’s nothing we don’t have a handle on, but—”
“Why would someone—No. Nothing like that. I know I already put down a deposit for the next part of the process. Keep it.”
There’s no hesitation in her voice. No room for counterargument.
“This is…coming out of nowhere,” I manage to say. “Are you sure you can’t share why you feel the need to take such a drastic action? I’d welcome whatever feedback you might have.”
“I’m just not interested anymore.”
There are a million scenarios I’m always braced for. Anxious clients who want to meet The One on the first go. Who want more options and make it faster please. But a polite woman who simply wants to move on? This is a first. And I can tell from her tone that she won’t be dissuaded. She’s made up her mind.
The call ends. I stare at my phone. It’s finally happened, I realize. Chatter about me has moved from the hypothetical and whispers on a random message board to the mainstream. With trembling hands, I pull up the search engine on my computer. Did Logan hit publish on his article? Am I the main character of the day? Are people blaming me for what happened to Lena? I type in my name. I type in Lena. Tanvir. Nothing new is out there. The old subreddit remains static. There is no article.
But my clients have gotten the memo. The handful of online comments from a cousin of Avani’s and a friend of Basit’s calling me a bad matchmaker, they probably barely scratch the surface of what’s happening behind the scenes. The rich are their own culture, and news travels like wildfire within it. They are likely beating my reputation into the ground behind closed doors at this very moment. People at this stratum of wealth won’t publicly shame me—doing so would only make them look bad for working with me in the first place.
But I get it now. My reputation is shot. And in my line of work, reputation is everything.
I’m done.