Page 50 of The Matchmaker

“That’s…that’s ridiculous!” I sputter. “I just talked to him this morning.”

“It’s gaining hundreds of likes as we speak.” She scans theparking lot, her expression grim. “They’d kept the location of this venue private for tonight, but I bet the paparazzi will be here any minute.”

The paparazzi. Followed by articles. Endless speculation. My head hurts.

“We’ll know what’s going on soon enough,” I manage to say.

My phone rings, and my heart leaps with hope. It’s Borzu.

“Got a tip on the police scanner,” he says without fanfare. “Someone spotted a silver Aston Martin a few hours ago speeding down Interstate 85 near Buckhead.”

“License plate?”

“No identifiers. Tanvir’s not the only one in the city with a silver Aston Martin, but the timing is suspicious.”

Borzu promises to keep me posted. We hang up as Genevieve slips back into the car. No updates. I tuck my phone into my clutch and look at the wedding hall. I need to check in on her parents.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually I find them in the back kitchen. I’d expected them to be surrounded by concerned relatives, but they are alone. The room is cold and empty. Trays of cooled tandoori chickens and racks of lamb rest in rows in the distance.

“Raheema,” I say softly as I approach.

“Can you believe this?” Her voice comes out as a strangled cry.

I place my arm around her, comforting her as best I can.

“The police are only here because of who I am,” says Lena’s father. “They’re convinced Lena and Tanvir ran off. It’s complete hogwash.”

“They may have spotted Tanvir’s car. Hopefully we’ll know what’s going on soon.”

At this, they look up at me.

“They found Tanvir’s car? Where did you hear that?” asks Raheema.

“One of my associates got a tip about a silver Aston Martin spotted near Buckhead.”

Raheema frowns. “When was this?”

Crap.The police didn’t tell her. The sighting must have been unrelated. Or else unsubstantiated.

“It’s probably nothing,” I say. “I just want you to know we’re looking into things on our end as well.”

Raheema looks at me. Unspeaking. Then her eyes narrow. “If you’re so good at looking into things, how did this happen? Tanvir has been getting more and more out of control with his demands these last few weeks. I’d about had it with him, and now this…. If he did something to her…” Her voice is low. Practically a growl.

“Raheema—”

“I trusted you.” Her voice breaks. Her husband puts a hand on her shoulder, but Raheema lunges toward me. She presses a manicured finger against my collarbone; it pinches against my skin. “WHERE ARE THEY, NURA? WHERE IS MY LENA?”

Her cry is guttural. I shiver as her husband pulls her back. She pulses with rage. I get it. She’s a mama bear searching for her cub. She will lash out at anyone. Still, it doesn’t stop me from recoiling. For guilt to seep in all the same.

Tanvir didn’t kidnap Lena. I know this as sure as I know my own name. But I think of the podcaster’s menacing voice. The note at my doorstep. Gertie. What if what happened tonight has nothing to do with Lena and Tanvir? What if it has everything to do with me?

Fourteen

Forty-eight hours have passed. I have felt each and every one of those hours, minutes, and seconds as they ticked by. There are no new updates. No cluewhatsoeverabout where Tanvir and Lena vanished to.

A part of me still clings to hope. They’re in a cell signal dead zone. Or on a flight that Borzu somehow missed. With each passing hour, though, this wishful thinking becomes more and more fanciful.

Darcy nudges open my office door. “We’re placing a group order. Chinese or Indian?”

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