The Matchmaker

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Twenty-seven

Logan’s eyes scan the space curiously, then shift to alarm when they land on mine.

“Nura.” He takes a step back.

In three quick strides, Fiona’s between us. Her hand rests on her holster.

“Whoa.” Logan raises his hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I swear, I mean no harm.”

“He’s here to see you, Borzu?” I ask.

“It’s…it’s not what you think.”

“That’s not an answer,” I say, my eyes trained on Borzu. Logan clears his throat, but I ignore him. “You knew I was babysitting today, so you figured the agency was as good a spot to meet with him as any, and…oh. You.” My stomach turns, the puzzle pieces fitting together. “You’re the anonymous source. You sent Logan to the wedding.”

“I fucked up, okay?” Borzu rubs his head. “Logan called the agency. You were out of the office that week. He wanted a comment. The piece was going to print ASAP. He had multiple sources on the record saying you’d made critical blunders as a matchmaker. When he told me you were up for talking but didn’t have time, I figured that wedding in the mountains was as decent a place to have the conversation as any.”

“You took him at his word? You could have confirmed with me first!”

“I know. You’re right. But it was time sensitive, and your phone kept going to voicemail. He was going to do a write-around. I couldn’t let him. This is Rolling Stone we’re talking about! If people thought we ruined our clients’ lives and didn’t properly vet applicants—that makes all of us look horrible. And it would be the end of the agency. I meant to tell you after. But then the accident…the bodyguards…things have been out of control.” He hangs his head. “It’s no excuse. I just…I wanted to clear the agency and your name from whoever is out to destroy both.”

“And Logan is here today because…?”

“I need more information than I can dredge up on my own,” Borzu says. “Logan’s got a treasure trove of receipts and interviews. Screenshots of conversations he says prove his case. I was hoping he would share some in exchange for me working with him.”

“Borzu said he’s hacking into the spoofed email account today,” Logan says.

Borzu nods. His shoulders are hunched. He may have been misguided in his actions, but his intentions were good—I can see it written all over his face. I’m less than thrilled that he was Logan’s anonymous source, and we will need to discuss this in depth later, but he wanted to help our agency. To help me.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I ask him. “No more secrets, please.”

“Nothing else, I swear. Well, okay”—he stops himself—“if we’re completely coming clean, I was the one who finished the last slice of carrot cake from Darcy’s birthday last year.”

“Ah. At least that mystery’s solved.”

Cake notwithstanding, as frustrated as I am that he chose to do what he did in the manner that he did, there are more urgent matters to address.

I look at Logan. I can choose to continue to distrust him. I can kick him out of the office right now. But…Borzu thought he needed Logan’s help. He trusts him. I’m going to take a leap of faith and trust him too.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s hack that email,” I say.

Forty-five minutes later, we’re in.

“Looks like this account was made solely to spoof you,” Borzu says. “That’s not exactly a shocker. There’s also nothing in here except the message to Logan.”

“So they’re not contacting anyone else and impersonating me?” I ask.

“Not from this account,” says Borzu. “We should be able to see where the email came from. I’ll look into that after I rescan our servers.”

“You think our servers got compromised?” I ask him.

“Probably not. I just want to rule every single thing out. I did a sweep last week, but a deeper scrape for everything, including our remote team, could only help.”

Ah. He wants to make sure the person behind this isn’t someone who works for us. He, too, is beginning to wonder.

“I feel like there’s something obvious we’re missing,” he continues. “It’s been messing with my head. I got here at eight o’clock this morning and did a once-over on the entire office. I went through every single one of our cabinets and checked under the desks looking for bugs. I can’t figure out how we’re constantly running into dead ends.” He turns to Logan. “Did you bring the files?”

“I’m a man of my word.” Logan unzips his messenger bag. “Received the last one this morning.”

Borzu’s eyes widen. “So you weren’t bluffing.”

“I never bluff, Borzu.” Logan pulls out a manila folder.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“These are the receipts,” he says. “The signed matchmaking contracts from the people who say you worked with them.”

“Well, they’re not going to be my contracts…” But my voice dies in my throat when he hands them to me. They are matchmaking agreements. Our matchmaking agreements. There’s the same henna graphic along the margins. The same Helvetica font.

And my signature.

There’s the familiar curve of the N. The swoosh of the K in Khan. With a gun to my head, I wouldn’t be able to tell it apart from my own actual signature.

“These are fake,” I say shakily. “I never worked with these people. How did someone get access to our contract template?” I ask Borzu. “Did a hacker get into our cloud files?”

“There are time stamps on each file to indicate when documents are accessed. When they’re downloaded. It marks who downloaded them and where they were downloaded. There’s been no unusual movement.”

“ Someone got to them,” I say. “They must have managed to get past the security blocks somehow.”

“Or did they get their hands on an existing contract from an actual client?” Logan asks. “Someone you’ve worked with in the past?”

It’s possible. How do I begin to narrow that down? I study the names. John Schaeffer. Jenny Ho. Simran Kaur. These were the same names of the trolls who’d tried to post to our agency website. The same names Logan had shared with me.

Wait. I look at the names again.

Kaur.

A wisp of a memory flutters.

“Borzu,” I say slowly. “Can you pull up the file with our denial letters?”

He clicks open the folder. There are likely thousands of rejection letters in here. Leaning over, I type Kaur into the search bar.

There she is.

“Simran Kaur—she was a potential client,” I say. “I remember now. She called constantly and wanted matches in a certain income bracket. We declined her application.”

“So that explains her wanting to smear us,” says Borzu.

“I don’t understand,” says Logan.

“She didn’t get what she wanted,” I say. “So she decided to get even with us by tarnishing the agency’s reputation.”

Taking in Logan’s skeptical expression, Borzu explains, “People don’t take kindly to rejection. That’s why our online reviews are a mess.”

I type in Jenny Ho . Then John Schaeffer. Sure enough, they’re in the database too. Why didn’t they show up when we searched before?

“There you go,” Borzu says. “Looks like these folks joined forces in an attempt to bring the agency down.”

“I really don’t think that’s what they’re after,” Logan insists.

“They all have the same motive. I don’t know how they coordinated their efforts, but we can figure that out soon enough,” says Borzu.

I bite my lip. I wouldn’t put it past anyone to join forces to mess with my business or smear me personally, but could they have been so angry I refused to match them that they’d try to kill me? I trace my hand over the agreement. Studying it. Then I lean closer.

“Wait,” I say. “This…this isn’t our current agreement. I mean, it is, but this double comma here on the first line—we caught this typo after we printed out a box full of them. Back before Borzu switched us to electronic files only.”

I point to the first sentence.

This agreement is between Piyar matchmaking agency and _____-_____- on the date of _____-_____-___ ___,, 20___.

“I saw the two commas as soon as I unpacked the boxes from the print shop,” I say. “I was kicking myself. Darcy made fun of me for asking her to shred them over one small error.”

Darcy.

“Do you think she forgot to shred them?” Borzu asks.

Blood pounds in my ears. That’s it. It’s the only explanation. It is the reception desk—up front and accessible to anyone who steps inside. Maybe she’d left a few stray templates on her desk. Maybe someone came by and saw one. Snatched it. That has to be it. Because if that’s not what happened…

Stop, I tell myself. Don’t go down that road. She would never…

But I have to know.

I hurry to her desk. Yank open the drawers. Each one contains neatly organized rows of thank-you cards and wedding invitations. There’s nothing there. Of course not. There wouldn’t have been.

“I went through everything here already,” says Borzu. “Even that nightmare of a closet by the bathroom. I would’ve noticed a box full of blank contracts.”

My eyes land on the planter in the corner of the office. The overgrown fern that Darcy gifted the agency years ago. It’s set atop a tall stand draped in creamy damask satin. Except it’s not a stand. It’s a filing cabinet. A holdover from Khala’s agency days, when filing cabinets lined the entire wall of our former cramped basement office. I’d kept this one for sentimental reasons. I’d forgotten all about it.

I hurry over. Pulling back the satin, I give each metal handle a firm yank. They’re locked. Every single drawer. Were they locked before? I don’t know what I expect to find in here, but I know I need to get into this filing cabinet. Now.

“I need a key.” My voice wavers. “Where am I going to find a key for this ancient thing?”

“I can get you in there without one,” Fiona says. She grabs a paper clip from Borzu’s desk and unwinds it with one long twist, not so much as scraping her red fingernails. “These are old-school—doesn’t take much to get them to open.”

In a few swipes and turns, the cabinet unclicks.

I press the first handle. The drawer is empty. Save some scrap paper and an old thumbtack, the second one is vacant too. I hear Borzu’s voice faintly in the background as I go through the other drawers. Third. Fourth.

“I can’t believe we didn’t get rid of this dinosaur yet,” he says. “I’ll take it to the dump on Monday.”

I open the last drawer. My heart catches in my throat.

This can’t be real. I’m seeing things. I must be.

There are files in here. Rows and rows of neatly organized folders. Numbly, I pull out the first manila folder. Flipping it open, my breath hitches.

Blank matchmaking agreements. Our agreements. I zero in on the first sentence. There it is. The double comma.

The other folders contain more contracts, but these ones aren’t blank. They’re filled out and fully executed agreements purportedly signed by me for clients I’ve never worked with.

I stare at the name on the next file. Jenny Ho.

Here’s John Schaeffer’s file, and Simran Kaur’s.

Every last one, without exception, is signed with my name.

The next name makes my blood go cold.

Basit Latif.

“How?” I croak. “How is he in here?”

I turn the pages of the agreement. I stare at the very last page. This one does not contain my signature.

It’s Darcy’s.

My heart thumps wildly in my chest. The room is shifting around me.

No. No. No.

Not Darcy. The person who knows where I am when no one in all the world does. The person with keys to my safety-deposit box. The keys to my own home.

“Darcy is taking on clients behind my back? Sh-she wouldn’t do this.” I look at Borzu’s pale face. “There’s got to be a logical reason for this. You kept your involvement with Logan from me, didn’t you? You had a reasonable explanation. Maybe she has one too.”

Borzu moves to speak, but nothing comes out. What can he say? There’s her name. It’s her signature. There’s no explaining this away.

Breathe. But nothing enters my system. The room spins on its axis. Beads of perspiration dot my forehead. I lean against the wall.

“Darcy would never…”

Except she did. I’m staring at the proof in my hands. Numbness spreads through my limbs. It’s as though my body is protecting my mind from what it can’t process.

A phone alarm sounds. My alarm. A reminder that I’m due at Nina’s. My agenda from a life that suddenly seems like it was ages ago. But Nina’s depending on me. I can’t let her down.

“I…have to go.”

“Nura, you can’t be serious,” Borzu says.

“Borzu’s right,” Logan says. “You can’t leave right now.”

But this doesn’t make sense. It can’t be true.

“I have to babysit my niece,” I say shakily. “Nina’s counting on me. I’ll…I’ll call you after.”

“I can’t access Darcy’s location.” Borzu’s typing on his phone. “You need to stay put. We have to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“I have Fiona. I’m safe. Change the locks to the agency. ASAP. We need to secure this place until we can talk to Darcy and give her a chance to explain.” My voice breaks. “There has to be a way for this to make sense.”

Before he can reply, I’m out.

I get in my car and turn on the engine. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Nina.

Sorry again for ruining the Charmander surprise. Just so you know, she’s already stationed by the window waiting for you. Prepare to be ambushed!

The stuffed toy. I cringe—I forgot it at my house. I check the time. I can still rush home and grab it and make it to Khala’s with a few minutes to spare.

I lower my car window. “Change of plans,” I tell Fiona, who is pulled up in her car next to me. “I’m going to go home to grab a quick thing, but it should only delay us a minute.”

“I’ll be right behind you, but are you sure you’re good to drive?” Fiona asks worriedly. “I can take you home. You can get your car later.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

Even though I’m not fine at all.

I’ll probably never be fine again.