Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-four
Someone out here in the world, at this very moment, is trying to frame me for things I haven’t done. Right now, I am walking to the parking deck of the Midtown Lowen hotel with a bodyguard. I have been fired by not one, but four clients.
And I have never been happier than I am in this exact moment.
Keys in hand, I’m walking—no, floating—to my rental.
Order some room service for breakfast, I text Azar from my ancient flip phone. Their waffles are the best.
I’m sticking it back in my purse when I hear a voice call out my name. “Hey, Nura! Wait up!”
Logan Wilson. He emerges from a stairwell. He’s in blue jeans. A dress shirt. He’s heading straight toward me.
“Back off!” Fiona shouts at him.
He looks at her, confused, and then at me. He continues walking in my direction.
In an instant, Fiona tackles him to the ground. I can’t help but stare at her in awe. The speed with which she moved—she’s a force. I shift my attention back to Logan. What is he doing here? And more troubling: How did he find me?
“Easy! I just had meniscus surgery!” he cries out, his cheek pressed against the dark asphalt of the parking lot. “I mean no harm, I swear!”
“Do you know him?” Fiona asks me, her knee pressed into his back.
“Unfortunately. What are you doing here, Logan? I’d love to hear the story this time.”
“May I get up?”
I nod to Fiona, who reluctantly releases him. He winces as he stands up.
“Shall we mark this down as yet another coincidence?” I ask as she pats him down.
“Not a coincidence.”
“Go on.”
He glances at Fiona, who rests one hand on her holster.
“Could we sit down at a café? I’d love to have a proper conversation.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m not going anywhere with you,” I tell him. “As soon as you finish talking, I’m going to the courthouse to get a restraining order. Who told you I was here?”
“I can’t reveal my sources,” he says. “But I’m here because I want to help. Like I’ve told you before, I have information to share with you. Things you really need to see. I mean it, Nura.”
He moves a hand to his back pants pocket. Glancing at Fiona, he quickly adds, “I’m just getting my phone, I swear.”
He holds the device toward me. Not an email this time. A text.
For the millionth time, I’m not sitting down for a chat with you. I’m not getting on a call. If you want to interview me, it’ll have to be like this. I know what you want. It’s about John, Jenny, or Simran. Right? Here’s what I have to say: Yes, things got out of hand. I have a lot of clients. It can be hard to keep track. Mistakes happen. I’m only human.
“From the look on your face, I’m guessing you didn’t send this text,” he says into the silence.
Jenny. Simran. Those are the same names as the trolls who were trying to smear me on my own website.
“How do I know you didn’t invent this text yourself to convince me to talk to you?” Even though this feels almost perfunctory. He’s not lying. I know it deep in my bones. He’s telling the absolute truth.
“I guess you don’t. You have to take my word for it. The thing is, though, I’ve spoken with each of these people. They all confirmed they worked with you.”
“They may not be lying,” I say. “Sometimes people are under the impression that I’m personally matching every single applicant who uses our app, but we have too many users to be personally familiar with each and every person.”
“They said they were with your VIP services.”
“That’s impossible. I know every personalized client. We’ve also run these names in our database. They’re not in our system.”
“They’ve got the receipts, Nura.”
“Show me.”
“I’m still working on getting everything organized, but I’ve got a running tab with screenshots they shared of texts and emails.” He pulls his phone back, taps into a folder, then hands it to me.
My brain can’t process what I am seeing.
There are pages and pages of texts. Emails. Voicemail transcriptions.
Hey, Nura! Hope this email finds you well. I was waiting to hear back about next steps. I tried the agency number but it just goes to voicemail? I hope you’re okay? Anyway, please get back to me….
…Nura. WTF?! We spoke nearly every day when you wanted my money, but now you’re nowhere to be found….
…If you could find the time to cash my payment, I think you could find the time to deign to reply to at least one of my emails?…
…I know life can get busy, but it’s been a month?! I’d appreciate it if you could confirm you received this email….
It’s like an infinite scroll of complaints. Clients I’ve never heard of, asking for updates on their cases. Requesting meetings. Accusing me of taking their money and running. But their accusations don’t shake me quite as deeply as seeing what are presumably my responses.
Jenny, you need to be patient. I have a long list of clients and I work with them in the order that they signed up.
Don’t make me regret taking you on, John. If you don’t like how I do things, you’re welcome to look for your soulmate elsewhere.
Dear Simran, as I have explained to you many times before already, I’m diving deep to get a list of partners set up for you, but these things take time. I have a few exceptional people in mind that I think might just be perfect for you, but if you keep harassing me, I can’t work with you anymore. More soon. Best, Nura
Best, Nura. My pulse pounds in my throat.
“I’ve never worked with these people,” I manage to say. “These replies here, they aren’t from me. I didn’t write these.”
He looks quietly at me for a second. Then he says, “I believe you.”
“I don’t understand….” My voice shakes. “Why is this happening? Who is doing this?”
“That’s what I want to know too.” He takes a step closer to me. “Let’s set up a real meeting, Nura. I’ll show you everything I have. I have a lot more information on my computer. Things I’ve printed out. Let’s figure out what’s going on. Together.”
“I’ve pushed you away so many times at this point. Why do you want to help me?”
“Nura! Because this is seriously fucked up. I do features. Profiles. I wanted to do a profile on you. Clearly, I’ve stumbled into something way deeper. Someone really wants me to bring you down. I want to know who. And why they’re using me as a pawn. I’m not publishing a word until I can figure out what bigger play is going on here.” He hesitates. “Also, not to overstep here, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you to be careful.”
“I’d say I’m being as careful as I can.” I nod toward Fiona.
He gives her a nervous smile, then looks back at me. “Even still. I’d make sure no one’s tracking your whereabouts.”
“I’m obviously getting tracked. You’re here, aren’t you?”
He points to the Subaru rental I’m standing next to. “Is this your car?”
“My employee Borzu checked it,” I tell him. “Before I left work yesterday, he inspected the whole vehicle and made sure it was clean.”
He walks up to the car, leans down, cranes his neck, and pulls out a dark circular object. He holds it out to me. “Haven’t seen a real-live tracker in some time,” he says.
“But he checked the car yesterday evening,” I say numbly as he hands it to me.
Borzu?
No. No. Borzu can’t be behind this.
And yet—there’s a tracker there. How did a tracking device get attached after he’d cleared the Subaru as safe? Had I even checked under the car after he looked? I wouldn’t have. I trust him.
“I don’t have a motive for you, but it’s obvious that someone wants to see you go down,” says Logan. “They’ve made me a part of this story too now. Until I know what they’re after, I’m doing my best to hold off and stay quiet. I don’t like being someone’s puppet. I want to find out what’s going on and what their angle is.”
“It’ll be a great story,” I say bitterly.
“It could be. But right now, I need to know what the hell is going on for my own sake. And don’t take this the wrong way, but considering the sensitive information I’m receiving, my money’s on the fact that it’s someone close to you.”
I hate how easily the words leave his mouth. As though he’s telling me the sky is blue. Except, he’s right.
But it makes no sense. Why would Borzu do this? My trusted circle is small because I’m careful whom I let inside. Even if hacking into a car and trailing my location are things Borzu could do in his sleep, it still doesn’t explain why .
I think back to his expensive coffee maker. The brand-new car with the glass ceiling. The cinder block shelves long gone, replaced by contemporary bookcases.
Is he skimming off the agency? Even contemplating this is too much to bear.
“Can I think about it?” I finally say.
“Of course.”
He heads toward the distant stairwell and disappears into the darkness.
I flick off the tracker’s blinking light. Tossing it to the ground, I crush it with the back of my heel. As I look around, hundreds of office buildings and hotel windows stare back at me. Logan said aloud what I’ve been too afraid to allow space for in my heart—but now it’s all I can think about: Whoever is after me, they aren’t somewhere out there in the world at large. It’s someone here. Someone local. Someone I know.