Page 72 of The Matchmaker

“It would have the same effect as Rohypnol. We need to test ASAP, though. It leaves the system quickly.”

“I’ll put an order in.” The doctor makes a note on his tablet. “The more we can rule out, the better.”

“Rule it all out,” I say. “I didn’t take anything!”

“Ms. Khan, they had to treat you for an overdose,” the doctor says. “Your injuries aren’t too bad, but the levels of drugs in your system…had a Good Samaritan not pulled over and called an ambulance, you would not have survived.”

An overdose? I lean back on the raised bed trying to make sense of the doctor’s words. Did I take a sip of anything while Logan was at my table? I can’t recall, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. But I didn’t feel drugged while driving. Did I? Tears prick my eyes. What else happened? Why can’t I remember?

The doctor chats with Azar briefly before he excuses himself. The door closes behind him. I try to still my breathing. Both Khala and Azar watch me worriedly.

Azar.

The memory returns in a sudden burst. We had an argument. A horrible fight before the crash.

“Your trip…”

“I’m so sorry, Nur.” His voice breaks. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“Was the car behaving strangely earlier?” Khala asks. “When you were driving to the wedding, was it acting up?”

“It was working completely fine,” I say as a nurse comes in. She draws blood from my left arm.

I try to remember the last bits of the evening. Logan showed me the spoofed email. Someone was posing as me. It’s connected to whatever happened. It has to be. I need to reach out to Logan. I need to see that email. When the nurse leaves, I turn to Khala.

“Where’s my phone?” I ask her. “Did they get it out of the car?”

Khala hands me my purse from the counter. I retrieve my device. The screen is cracked, but it works. I type in my passcode. There’s a sharp rapping at the hospital room door.

“It better not be the police again,” Khala says.

Azar’s expression darkens as he goes to answer the door. I hear a muffled conversation. Stilted. Angry. He steps back. Two police officers enter the room. Officer Kirkpatrick, I read on his lapel. The other officer is a woman, her blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Officer Delray.

“Glad to see you’re better,” Officer Kirkpatrick says.

“This is not a good time,” Azar says.

“It’s fine, Azar,” I tell him. I understand his protectiveness. Iamtired—the ache in my ribs is growing sharper. But the sooner I answer their questions, the sooner they can figure out what is going on. Who is behind this.

“We understand you’ve had quite an ordeal,” Delray says.

“I was drugged. Can’t figure out how quite yet.” I wonder if Logan poisoned an appetizer. I have no idea how drugging someone works, but it doesn’t sound outside the realm of possibilities. “And someone did something to my car, which caused it to crash.”

The officers exchange glances. “We understand you had a high amount of oxy in your system,” Kirkpatrick says.

“I don’t take any pain medicine other than the occasional Advil, much less oxycodone.”

“There are street names for oxy as well,” he says. “Roxy? Perc? OC?” He rattles off a few more. “Do any of those sound familiar?”

I look at them, unable to speak. I thought they were here to get answers. To help me. Their questions and demeanor imply otherwise. “I did not ingest any illegal substance.”

They do not reply.

“Not sure if you’ve had a chance to check out my car,” I continue. It appears I have to do their work for them. “There must be some evidence that it was tampered with. Someone did this to me. The drugging. The crash. All of it.”

They still don’t speak. It’s a tactic I’m familiar with. I do the same during my intake sessions with clients when I need them to tell me things they’d prefer not to share, like sensitive family information or indiscretions they’re not proud of. The longer I let the awkward silence linger, the more likely they’ll rush to fill the void with the information I need. That’s what they’re doing to me.

Fine. I don’t need them. I’m not a damsel in distress. I have my own team. We’ll get to the bottom of this one way or another.

---