Page 83 of The Matchmaker

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….

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