Chapter Nine
Nine
Savita’s bridal boutique is the ultimate mirage. From the outside it’s just another unassuming space in a nondescript strip mall filled with desi clothing stores, restaurants, and cafés. But the shop shifts to nearly otherworldly beyond the gauzy curtained entrance. Classical Indian music plays on low, and the walls are lined with folded lenghas and silk saris. Bolts of fabric lay folded and elegantly stacked for anyone interested in custom-tailored traditional gowns.
“Thank you for getting me squeezed in,” Darcy says. We stand by the entrance as Savita finishes up with another client. “Last I checked, the waitlist was backed up for months. I’d given up any hope.”
“She owes me. My aunt and I set her brother up years ago.”
“Well, now I owe you,” she teases. Looking at me, her expression shifts. “You’re all right, though? It’s okay not to be fine given everything that’s been going on.”
“I’m fine. Really. Just wish we could figure out who was behind this. I thought for sure we’d know something by now.”
“At least we have a motive.”
“At least we think we do….”
“It’s obvious! He’s clearly a deranged stalker obsessed with Avani,” she says. “I don’t know why we didn’t piece it together before. He alluded to her testimonial in his first podcast. Remember when he said you’re not a magician? Avani’s the one who’d called you that. And then his whole rant about social media posts—Avani was the one posting every minute of her marriage prep. The way he cackled about their wedding falling apart.” She shivers. “He was fixated on her.”
“He seemed equally fixated on me.”
“My guess is he blamed you for matching them up,” she says. “There hasn’t been any hint of him in weeks, has there? I bet he left that note as a sick victory lap.”
I hope Darcy’s right. Thanks to the note and the footage of the masked man, we were able to file a police report and rush the clearance process with the city to install security cameras at the agency. The office feels like Fort Knox now. And to Darcy’s point, it has been nearly two weeks since that note was left on our door. Nothing else has happened. Every wedding I’ve attended since Avani’s has been blessedly uneventful. Maybe it’s finally behind us.
Or am I simply in the eye of the storm? The walls of the hurricane could be churning in the distance, inching closer. Each morning I promise myself I’ll go for a run, determined not to let him spook me, and each morning I look out at the deserted stretch of road from inside my house and think: Whoever left that note, they’re out there.
I remember feeling this same edgy sensation after my mother died. A lot of the details have faded with time, but the memory of how I felt remains vivid. That feeling of waiting for something else to come crashing down. Would Khala decide I was too much trouble and send me packing? Would something bad also happen to her? And if it did, what then? My thoughts used to run in loops back then. The aftershocks of trauma leave your body tense and bracing for what comes next. But as my aunt told me when I finally let her in—shared with her my deepest fears—even if the feelings are real, it doesn’t mean the fear is justified. Just because you think the other shoe is about to drop doesn’t mean it will. Maybe whoever was trolling me has moved on. Maybe I should move on too.
Darcy watches me worriedly. I feel a pinch of shame. We are here to pick her wedding outfit, and somehow I’ve made this moment—Darcy’s moment—about me.
“I’m fine, Darcy. Promise. And I’m really happy to be here with you for this special moment.”
“We’re okay with time?” She checks her phone. “Don’t forget, you have a two o’clock video call with Beenish.”
“I moved it to this morning so we wouldn’t have to feel rushed.”
“That’s great! How’s she doing? Any more contact with Austin?”
“Things are going well—she really did block his number and his social media accounts across all platforms. The therapy and coaching are working like a charm. She’s further along than I’d have expected. It’s going to stick this time.”
Darcy’s eyes sparkle. “When do we get to introduce her to possible matches?”
“It’s time to start pinning down some good options. Jahanzeb might be a good match for her, what do you think?”
“Nayab could be a fit too,” Darcy says. “He seems just her type. I’ll double-check whether he’s still single.”
“Ladies, no more business talk.” Savita walks toward us. “My apologies for keeping you waiting, but it’s officially wedding time for you, my dear.”
We’re ushered into a back room. “It’s like I’m Alice in Wonderland,” Darcy marvels.
She’s right. I’ve never ventured this way before. Sitar music plays low in the background. There’s a tea table flanked with two matching chairs. Piping hot chai sits in a teapot in the center with porcelain cups and a tower of bite-sized sandwiches and scones. Two dressing rooms flank the back wall with identical floor-length mirrors on either side of them, as well as even more bridal gowns. Rows and rows of multicolored ghararas and elaborate lenghas and saris stretch out into the distance.
Darcy walks over to a blank-faced mannequin dressed in a lacy gown. She traces the delicate fabric with her finger. Lifting the veil, she examines the price tag. Her smile falls.
Ugh. I’m glad I could help make this moment possible, but there’s no denying that Savita’s bridal gowns are pricey.
“I’ll talk to her about a discount,” I whisper. “Desi shops are always up for good old-fashioned bargaining. In all my years, I’ve never paid sticker price here.”
“Even with a discount…” Her hands drift to the tag for the gown on the next hanger. She subtly shakes her head. “It’s fine.” She clears her throat and shoots me a smile. “If I don’t end up buying something from here, it’ll still give me some good ideas.”
Hours pass in the blink of an eye as Darcy tries on different outfits. Now she swings open the door to her dressing room, revealing a beautiful two-toned lengha.
“That one’s absolutely perfect,” I say.
“You’ve said that about every outfit I’ve tried on.”
“I mean it about this one!”
“You think?”
“I know. The cut is very flattering.”
She checks herself out in front of the floor-length mirror. The champagne of the frock brings a flush to her complexion. The silver embroidery along the edges adds a touch of elegance and complements the platinum in her hair.
“I agree with Nura.” Savita collects our teacups and nods approvingly at Darcy. “It brings out your eyes.”
“The price is right too,” she murmurs, examining the tag attached to the veil.
“I can give you a good discount on that one,” Savita offers. “We have a bit of an overstock.”
“We have a winner, then!” Darcy grins. “It’s a tiny bit snug around the waist, though. Could I get it taken out?”
“Let’s get you a size up instead. It’s easier to tailor it down.”
When Savita reappears, she brings the right size, along with six different outfits.
“Oh noooo,” Darcy says. “Savita, my problem isn’t finding the perfect dress. It’s that you have too many perfect dresses.”
“Glad to hear it.” Savita hangs the new gowns and saris on a hook against the dressing room door. “These arrived last night. Best to be absolutely sure for the most important day of your life.”
Darcy purses her lips and examines them. She takes one and hands it to me.
“Try it on,” she says.
I raise my eyebrow. “This seems sacrilegious.”
“We’re basically the same size, aren’t we? Come on. Help a girl out. I have so many to try on. Let’s call it wedding party duties?”
I can’t argue with that. I try on a raw silk dress. A traditional red gown. They’re both pretty, but we agree they’re not quite right. Next, I try on a periwinkle-colored sari.
“I like that one!” Darcy says when I step out of the dressing room.
“This is a gorgeous sari. But not bridal.”
“It’s not supposed to be.” She gives me a sly look. “It’s your maid of honor outfit. I called Savita before we came and asked her if she had a sari in the right color, and I have to say, she really came through.”
“Darcy!” It’s soft and silky. I walk up to the floor-length mirror. “I love it.”
“I’m going with a unifying color theme instead of matching dresses for the bridesmaids, so everyone can choose something they’d actually want to wear.”
“I’d definitely wear this again,” I tell her. “You know I’m always on the lookout for new wedding attire.”
“I hadn’t realized.” She winks. “Let’s do a selfie. I want to remember this moment.”
She pulls out her phone. The light flashes and I look at the two smiling women on the screen. In just a few months she’ll be married. She’ll be traveling the world with Samir. And even when she’s back, she’ll be busier than before. Her priorities will shift, as they should. I’m happy for her, but between Azar and Darcy, I’m grateful at least Gertie can’t get married and move on without me.
As we wrap up, I take my sari to the counter to pay.
“It was going to be a gift for you,” Darcy protests. “It’s part of the budget.”
“Darcy.” I shoot her a side-eye.
“It’s my way of saying thank you. For that advance on the year-end…and for everything, you know?”
My heart swells with affection. She is stressed about money and working so hard to pay down her debts, but here she is earnestly wanting to buy this for me.
“Thanks, Darcy, but it’s way too generous when you have so many other important things to spend your money on.” I hand Savita my credit card.
After we finish up, we exit the bridal shop. The sun beams bright overhead. Cars rush past us on the busy four-lane road across the way. I peek at the silky outfit in the bag. “Would you mind if I wore this to Lena’s mehndi? It’s lovely, and I know the perfect jewelry set to go with it.”
“Of course you should wear it,” Darcy says. “I can’t wait for that wedding to be behind us, though. I’m forever paranoid it’s not going to happen.”
“Has there been any progress with the elephant situation?”
“It’s a proper standoff at this point,” Darcy says. “Tanvir won’t budge, and Lena’s standing by her man. The folks at the wedding venue said the liability risk is too high. And they worry it sets a bad precedent.”
“I can’t argue with them there.”
“Me either,” she says. “I had no idea Tanvir would turn groomzilla on us. I spoke with Lena’s mother yesterday. She’s fed up.”
Uh-oh. That’s not good. It’s the children I’m setting up in these arrangements, but it’s usually the parents who settle the bill. We aren’t planning Lena’s wedding, but Tanvir’s temperament definitely remains within our professional purview. I make a mental note to give him a call today. Weddings can make us lose perspective. I’ll see if I can’t talk him down.
As we make our way toward our parked cars, my stomach rumbles.
“Want to grab a bite to eat before we part ways?” I ask her.
She doesn’t reply. Her gaze is fixed on something in the distance. A lone car stopped at the red light at the intersection.
“Darcy?” The light turns green. She clutches her purse. The car—a white Mercedes—zips past us. Darcy’s shoulders relax.
“You okay?” I ask.
“That’s the same car Andrei had,” she says bashfully. “But it’s also the same car as a million other people in the metro Atlanta area, so I basically have a mild freak-out multiple times a day.”
“He hasn’t bothered you since you got the restraining order, has he?”
“Not a peep. I still get jumpy, though. Old habits die hard. I’m fine,” she says in response to my worried expression. “Really.”
Before I can say more, a familiar voice calls out.
“Nur?”
Azar. He’s walking down the sidewalk in blue scrubs. His curls are tamed and brushed back. And—Oh. He’s not alone. Alongside him is a woman wearing matching scrubs. There’s no winged eyeliner or red dress like the Instagram photo. But it’s definitely—
“Zayna?” I blurt out as they approach.
Her easy demeanor shifts as she takes me in. “You must be the famous Nura Khan.”
“It’s nice to finally meet,” I say. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Yeah? I’ve heard a lot about you too,” she replies.
I give Azar a quizzical look. He flushes. “What are you both doing in this part of town?”
“Wedding shopping,” says Darcy, after she introduces herself to Zayna. “I might have found the perfect dress.”
“That’s great,” Azar says. An awkward silence falls over us.
I clear my throat. “What about you two kids? Up to anything fun and exciting?”
Kids? Fun and exciting? I cringe. Why am I being so awkward? Also, how does she manage to look drop-dead gorgeous in blue scrubs and orthopedic footwear?
“We took a break to grab some dosas,” Azar says. “Zayna introduced me to a hidden gem.”
“We were going to check it out a few weeks ago, but I think something came up for you, Nura,” she says. “Some kind of emergency?”
“Sorry again about that, Zayna,” Azar says. “I shouldn’t have gotten up and—”
“No, I’m sorry,” I interject. “I called him and made it seem like it was a big emergency. It was a strange—”
She waves a hand and cuts both of us off. “It’s fine. Water under the bridge.”
When they leave, I look at Darcy. “That was…”
“Awkward?” Darcy finishes. “Um. Yes. A little bit.”
I watch them walk toward Azar’s SUV. The last time I met someone he dated for any length of time was our freshman year in college. He and Amara lasted barely two weeks, parted amicably, and she’s still my friend. But I get a sinking feeling Zayna won’t be interested in a friendship with me. His hand rests on her lower back as he opens the passenger door. This is as serious as Azar’s ever gotten. It won’t matter how long I’ve known him. How deep our roots go. If she hates me, the door between me and Azar will close forever.
“I’d say, given that her boyfriend doubles as your pretend fiancé,” Darcy says, “if she’s a bit cagey around you, it’s understandable.”
“She doesn’t need to worry about that anymore. He officially dumped me.”
“What?” She looks stricken. “She told him he couldn’t attend weddings with you anymore?”
“He said it was eating up too much of his free time.”
“There’s no shortage of people to pair you up with for a plus-one. Samir’s got a really cute best friend, and he’s single. Maybe you could even go on an actual date.”
“I don’t want anyone else. Azar was enough.”
“Oh?” Her eyes shine.
“Darcy! Not like that.” Heat rises to my face.
“If you say so.” Darcy purses her lips, considering. “Okay. Fine. How about I accompany you to Lena and Tanvir’s wedding? I’ll be your date.”
“You’re overloaded as is right now. I know I’m throwing myself a pity party here, but I can handle attending a wedding by myself. I do it all the time. Maybe I’ll buy a wedding band and say my dashing husband is putting our kids to bed. That could be my new routine going forward.”
“Honestly, I’d love to go. It’ll be nice to see them off. It’s supposed to be the wedding of the decade, right?” She hooks her arm through mine as we near our cars. “Plus, I like spending time with you.”
I squeeze her arm. “The feeling’s absolutely mutual.”
I slow down in front of the chaat house across from our vehicles. The scent of coriander and cumin wafts through the air. I scan the glossy menu pasted against the front door. Per usual, the place is packed with people. I eye the crowded tables. Maybe I can grab an order to go.
Wait.
I inch closer. I look at the man sitting by himself near the window.
It’s Logan Wilson.
He’s alone. His eyes are fixed on something on the table. It’s likely he’s watching something on his phone. He doesn’t notice me watching him.
Ever since this chaat house got Zagat rated, the place draws just about everyone. If he’s in town for business, it’s not out of the question that he’d hunt down one of the best eats around. But to be in the exact same area at the exact same time as me? Atlanta isn’t some quaint pastoral village. We’re a sprawling urban development nightmare. Why is he here?
“What’s the matter?” asks Darcy.
“That’s Logan.” I point him out. “Kind of a weird coincidence, right?”
“That is weird.” She looks at me. “You think he was following us?”
“Who knows? Since that note I feel paranoid about everything.”
“I can’t blame you. I’m glad you cleared your schedule for this afternoon,” she tells me. “You need to take your mind off things.”
Logan is not following you, I chide myself. He did not leave that note. He had no reason to. It’s like Darcy said, whoever left it proved their point. Spooked me within an inch of my life and moved on. I need to clear my head. Get out the adrenaline pumping uselessly in my system. I’ll stop for groceries, and then I’ll lace up my sneakers and hit the track near my house. The park is always packed with soccer practices and baseball games around this time of day. It’s safe. A run will do me good.
I get in my car and turn on the ignition. The small space fills with welcome air-conditioning. Before I pull out of the parking spot, I text Azar.
Let’s get this out of the way: Zayna hates me, right?
Three dots immediately appear.
What? She loved meeting you!
Mmmhmm, I reply.
We need to all grab dinner ASAP , he texts . You’ll love her.
Is that what you’re starting to feel toward her, Azar? I wonder. Love?
As I made my way down the highway, my phone rings. I move to decline, but I pause at the name blinking on the screen: Stark Residential Security Services.
The woman on the other line asks me to answer a host of verification questions, then—
“We received an alert that your house alarm has gone off.”
I draw a sharp intake of breath. “I—I’m not home.”
“It looks like Zone One was activated. There may be no need to worry. Alarms go off for all kinds of reasons. We have an officer en route to check out the property.”
I take the first exit off the interstate. Chill, Nura, I try to tell myself. That rickety front door triggers the alarm even when it’s snugly secured, though it’s never done it when I wasn’t home. Gripping the steering wheel, I accelerate through a yellow light and roll through each stop sign until I turn onto my street.
It’s fine. Nothing is wrong. Stay calm.
But calm, I realize once I pull into my driveway, is something I’m not sure I’ll ever feel again. The alarm screams. It pulses through the sleepy street as though warning of an impending air raid.
My front door is open. Flapping back and forth in the breeze.
Unsteadily, I stumble out of my car. Wind tousles my hair. I inch closer to the opening. From the foot of my steps, I scan the door for signs of damage. There’s no way I’m getting any closer. I’ll wait for the police.
Then my blood goes cold.
Gertie.
Rational thought vanishes. I take the front steps two at a time and stumble into the foyer. I rush into my living room and survey the scene. My television. The expensive speakers that Azar gifted me two years ago. My spare MacBook rests on the bookshelf. Everything is still here.
“Gertie!” I call out. I grab the tin can with her favorite salmon treats. The ones that coax her from her coziest of hideaways. I rattle it as I hurry through the rest of the house.
I scream her name until my voice goes hoarse, flipping open cabinets, scanning beneath my bed, but as police lights flash outside the windows, I already know.
Gertie is gone.