Page 91 of The Matchmaker

“Borzu said he’s hacking into the spoofed email account today,” Logan says.

Borzu nods. His shoulders are hunched. He may have been misguided in his actions, but his intentions were good—I can see it written all over his face. I’m less than thrilled that he was Logan’s anonymous source, and we will need to discuss this in depth later, but he wanted to help our agency. To help me.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I ask him. “No more secrets, please.”

“Nothing else, I swear. Well, okay”—he stops himself—“ifwe’re completely coming clean, I was the one who finished the last slice of carrot cake from Darcy’s birthday last year.”

“Ah. At least that mystery’s solved.”

Cake notwithstanding, as frustrated as I am that he chose to do what he did in the manner that he did, there are more urgent matters to address.

I look at Logan. I can choose to continue to distrust him. I can kick him out of the office right now. But…Borzu thought he needed Logan’s help. He trusts him. I’m going to take a leap of faith and trust him too.

“What are we waiting for? Let’s hack that email,” I say.

Forty-five minutes later, we’re in.

“Looks like this account was made solely to spoof you,” Borzu says. “That’s not exactly a shocker. There’s also nothing in here except the message to Logan.”

“So they’re not contacting anyone else and impersonating me?” I ask.

“Not from this account,” says Borzu. “We should be able to see where the email came from. I’ll look into that after I rescan our servers.”

“You think our servers got compromised?” I ask him.

“Probably not. I just want to rule every single thing out. I did a sweep last week, but a deeper scrape for everything, including our remote team, could only help.”

Ah. He wants to make sure the person behind this isn’t someone who works for us. He, too, is beginning to wonder.

“I feel like there’s something obvious we’re missing,” he continues. “It’s been messing with my head. I got here at eight o’clock this morning and did a once-over on the entire office. I went through every single one of our cabinets and checked under the desks looking for bugs. I can’t figure out how we’reconstantly running into dead ends.” He turns to Logan. “Did you bring the files?”

“I’m a man of my word.” Logan unzips his messenger bag. “Received the last one this morning.”

Borzu’s eyes widen. “So you weren’t bluffing.”

“I never bluff, Borzu.” Logan pulls out a manila folder.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“These are the receipts,” he says. “The signed matchmaking contracts from the people who say you worked with them.”

“Well, they’re not going to be my contracts…” But my voice dies in my throat when he hands them to me. They are matchmaking agreements.Ourmatchmaking agreements. There’s the same henna graphic along the margins. The same Helvetica font.

And my signature.

There’s the familiar curve of the N. The swoosh of the K in Khan. With a gun to my head, I wouldn’t be able to tell it apart from my own actual signature.

“These are fake,” I say shakily. “I never worked with these people. How did someone get access to our contract template?” I ask Borzu. “Did a hacker get into our cloud files?”

“There are time stamps on each file to indicate when documents are accessed. When they’re downloaded. It marks who downloaded them and where they were downloaded. There’s been no unusual movement.”

“Someonegot to them,” I say. “They must have managed to get past the security blocks somehow.”

“Or did they get their hands on an existing contract from an actual client?” Logan asks. “Someone you’ve worked with in the past?”

It’s possible. How do I begin to narrow that down? I study the names. John Schaeffer. Jenny Ho. Simran Kaur. Thesewere the same names of the trolls who’d tried to post to our agency website. The same names Logan had shared with me.

Wait. I look at the names again.

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