Page 4 of The Matchmaker

My mood sours. I’m tempted to steal out to a quiet spot and see what headache awaits me. Except…

No.I slip my phone back into my clutch. Not tonight. I deserve a respite, however brief, from work drama. The truth is that people who don’t get accepted through the vetting process for our matchmaking app or who aren’t green-lighted to our pricier personalized services tend to get upset. Sometimes they lash out. It’s the cost of doing business. I take in the newlyweds on the dance floor. The groom’s arms encircle the bride’s waist. They gaze into each other’s eyes, lost in their own world in the middle of a raging bhangra beat. Some parts of this job leave a lot to be desired, but moments like this one, where I get to bear witness to the happily ever after that I helped make happen, make the headaches worth it. The music cranks up louder. I match Azar’s dancing, beat for beat. Tonight is for dancing. For celebrating a beautiful union. I’ll deal with whatever this is tomorrow.

Two

Laughter and squeals drift over from a nearby playground as I pull my Audi into the reserved parking spot kitty-corner to our agency. Our office is a stand-alone one-story brick building in the chic walkable neighborhood of Inman Park, dotted with bookstores, cafés, and brunch destinations. My sunglasses fog up as soon as I get out of the car. It’s not yet noon, not yet officially summer, but already the heat is rising. Checking my hair in my phone, it’s confirmed: The faint frizzy halo is back. You can pay to have your slacks and blouses steamed and pressed, but desi hair—despite an army of professional products—is no match for Atlanta’s sticky humidity. At least most of my clientele are also desi—they understand.

Swinging open the front door, the two-thousand-square-foot space welcomes me with its recessed lighting and creamy curtains fluttering in the air-conditioning. Darcy, my assistant, picked out nearly everything here not long after I leased the space, from the velvet-cushioned seating in the foyer to the handmade rug, custom cut, draping most of the marble floor, to the potted fern resting by the windowsill atop an old filing cabinet discreetly covered in satin damask. The team’sbeen on me to get rid of that filing cabinet, but it’s nostalgic—the only remnant of the old days when the business was just Khala and me working out of her basement. My office is in the back, next to the sleek, glass-walled conference room. Borzu, my tech guy, and Genevieve, my private investigator, have matching desks set up in the open space, as does Darcy. Hers is the biggest—double-wide and up front—to greet clients when they arrive and block those who have no business being here.

Darcy’s not sitting at her desk right now. Instead, she’s pacing back and forth, her hands clasped behind her back. Her slate-blue eyes flash with indignation. Based on the amused expressions Borzu and Genevieve just exchanged, she’s been pacing for a minute.

“What do you mean, we can’t shut it down?” Darcy exclaims to Borzu. He’s sporting dyed red hair today, closely cropped. Darcy’s in her usual buttoned-up professional attire—a cream blouse and gray skirt. Her white-blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail. “If anyone can do it, you can.”

“Darcy,” Borzu says with a sigh.

“Give it a rest,” Genevieve says. “It’s not like anyone’s going to be tuning in to this.”

“That doesn’t make it any less problematic. We need to nip this podcast in the bud before it snowballs out of control.”

“It’s a podcast?” I ask. “How bad is it?”

All eyes turn to me.

“You mean you haven’t listened to it?” Darcy stares at me.

“The wedding went late last night. Then I had that ridiculously early client intake this morning, remember?”

“Yoga Lady,” says Genevieve. “Did she really make you join her on the mat?”

“Technically, sheinvitedme to join her. But yes, I can confirm it’s awkward to be in cobra pose while asking a client about their ideal dinner date.”

“One sec. I’ve got it pulled up.” Borzu squints at his computer screen. Presses play. A staticky masculine voice blasts through the speakers. The words clip in and out, but the final ones ring out crystal clear:

People call Nura Khan an expert. A magician. Are youkiddingme? Here’s the deal: Anyone can call themselves an expert. But I’m here to give you the straight facts. The Piyar matchmaking agency doesn’t help people. It hurts them. You can post all you want about how magical the agency is, but at the end of the day, she’s a fraudster. I know it. Soon the world will too.

The recording abruptly ends. My team watches me, waiting for my response. I look at Borzu’s computer screen; the podcast, such as it is, is calledPiyar Confidential,and this two-minute “episode” is the sole recording. Darcy has a mama bear attitude when it comes to me, but—

“Okay, that was a little creepy,” I say. “But at the end of the day, it’s an angry man, what else is new? I don’t think it’s such a big deal.”

“You can’t be serious!” Darcy’s eyes widen.

“I’m with Nura,” says Borzu. “This sounded more like a voice memo rant than anything else.”

“He sounds as unhinged as Andrei,” Darcy counters.

“This is a rando rejected client, not your obsessive ex-boyfriend,” Genevieve interjects. “Nura’s right. Would-be clients who don’t make the cut get pissed. Looks like one of them just found a new way to express themselves.”

“I’ll take that over a one-star App Store review,” Borzu adds.

“Shouldn’t we at least try to figure out who we’re dealing with?” asks Darcy. “It must be someone recent. We need to get to the bottom of this.”

“Based on what information? I’m a PI, not a magician,” says Genevieve wryly.

“I’ll do what I can on the tech side,” Borzu says. “But this was so low-budget, he probably got five clicks, if we’re being generous. I only found it because of the alerts I set up.”

“Even if it gets a hundred listens,” I say, “we’re talking about a teeny, tiny tide pool. With the way he was raging, he didn’t exactly sound credible.”

“What is it with guys like this?” Darcy shakes her head. “Do they throw temper tantrums anytime someone says no?”

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