Page 34 of The Matchmaker

I shiver. The note. The sabotaged wedding. They’re connected. They tie back to him.

They tie back to me.

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, nowIowe 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 withAvani,” 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, ithasbeen 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 traumaleave 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’mreallyhappy 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 foryou,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 evenmorebridal 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.

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