Page 60 of The Matchmaker

“It really put everything into perspective for me. About what really matters.” Tanvir looks tenderly at Lena. “I admit it. I lost my way leading up to the wedding, but who cares about awedding? Only one thing matters, which is being with you, Lena, for the rest of my life.”

Tears stream down her face, but she’s smiling. “We’re stronger than ever now, and we’re only just beginning.”

He kisses her.

I wipe away my own tears. I spoke to them this morning. They were shaky but in good spirits. Still, seeing the visual of them together now and watching hearts fill the screen, it really and truly hits me: They’re together. They’re safe.

“Check out the views,” Darcy marvels. “It’s gone from a thousand to half a million since we started watching. Maybe our inbox will finally get under control now.”

Borzu looks at his phone. His expression shifts. “The police are holding a press conference.”

Switching over to the local news, we watch officers gathered at a platform. A man in a blue uniform stands at the center and speaks to a crowd via a dozen mics affixed to the podium. We listen with bated breath: As expected, the suspect has been identified. Farhan Latif, son of a Michigan state senator, kidnapped the heiress of a cosmetics empire along with her fiancé on the eve of their wedding.

“So it begins,” mutters Genevieve. “It’ll be a 24/7 circus from here on out.”

She’s right. This is tabloid gold. This is the stuff of a soapy Netflix miniseries.

“How soon before news outlets are reporting that we took a call with Farhan’s father?” I murmur.

“Why would that matter?” Borzu says. “We kicked him to the curb when he gave us bad vibes. Farhan was obsessed with Lena way before we got into the picture. A video went up a few hours ago. One of Farhan’s old college classmates was talking about how far back his obsession goes. This doesn’t tie back to the agency.”

“Except for the fact thatI’mthe one who killed him,” Darcy says softly.

“Oh, Darcy.” I look at her. “They didn’t mention anything about that.”

“It’s only a matter of time. Don’t get me wrong, I’d do it again. In a heartbeat. But the thought of it getting out, people talking about it…looking at me, knowing I’m a killer.” She shudders. “I don’t know if I can take it.”

“You’re a hero for what you did, Darcy. If word gets out, people will throw a ticker-tape parade in your honor,” says Genevieve. “You did what you had to do. Remember, no matter what happens, we’ve got you.”

“Whatever comes, it’s like Genevieve said, we’ll weather this together.” I give her a hug. I’m worried about potential fallout too, but she saved my life. I will never be able to repay her for her bravery, but I’ll do whatever I can to ease her worries. She has enough trauma to deal with—taking a life, even under the circumstances she was forced to do so, has to exact a cost.

—

Back in my office, I close the door and settle down at my desk. Pull out my tablet. Click back onto the private browser I’ve had up since this morning. The one with the open tab and the quarter-column article that took hours of searching to unearth. I’ve read it so many times it’s ingrained into my brain at this point.Two Fatalities in South Mission.A murder-suicide. Dispassionately described as “a domestic dispute between a Pakistani woman and her estranged husband in San Francisco’s crime-prone Mission District.”

A domestic dispute.Tears prick my eyes. They didn’t even say my mother’s name. They just flattened her into anotherstatistic. Calling the area “crime-prone,” like what happened was her fault, since she was in a dangerous part of the city. And what did being Pakistani have to do with any of it?

I look at her photo, the one I’d saved to my phone years ago. She’s smiling into the camera. She has on a yellow blouse; her dark hair is pulled back. Bangs frame her eyes, which look so similar to my own. She’s younger than I am now. I’ll never know what she went through. The particulars of the abuse she suffered. I’ve helped multiple clients over the years, from a variety of different faiths and backgrounds, who have overcome abusive relationships. I supported them. I held their hands when they wept. All that time I had no idea my own mother had experienced the same thing. She’d endured unspeakable abuse until I arrived. From then on, she did everything she could to protect me. To keep me from knowing such horror.

I click on the other open tab. After hours of searching, I found the social media profiles of some of Fiaz Usmani’s family. Nephews. Nieces. They all have the same full mouth as my own. An elderly woman sits in a wheelchair in one of the photos, holding two great-grandchildren in her arms. Is she his mother? I grip the tablet tighter. Does she feel shame for looking the other way? For the monster she created?

I know Khala feels bad for keeping the truth hidden from me. She looked haunted when she told me about my past. But I’m too raw right now to unpack everything. And I can’t help but wonder: Would my mother have kept all of this from me like Khala had? I was barely older than Lilah is now when she died, too young to process any of this, but when I was old enough, would she have given me the ugly truth? I’ll never know. This man took her away from me before I’d ever find out. He upended my life without a second thought.Meanwhile, his relatives smile and pose for selfies. They pretend it never happened.

My phone buzzes. I check it even though I know who it will be—Azar and Khala have been checking in nonstop. Khala’s called five times today. I texted her back that I’m well and I’ll be in touch when I’m ready. I’ve sent her videos and photos of Gertie. I told her I love her, but I’m not ready yet. I need time to process everything.

But when I take a quick look, the incoming text message is not from Khala.

Logan here. Hope you’re faring okay. I received critical information we need to discuss. This is a complex story with lots of moving parts, and I can’t do it justice without your perspective on everything. I hope you will reconsider.

I grit my teeth and toss the phone facedown on my desk. I’m not sure how he got my number, but it’s hard not to read between the lines of his text. A story is coming out soon. I can be involved in the story or simply the object of it. I massage my temples. I do not have it in me to take on one more thing, least of all this.

My door creaks open, and Darcy slips inside.

“I come bearing coffee.” She pushes a latte forth.

“I should be gettingyoucoffee.”

She shakes her head. “I just want to pretend nothing changed.”

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