Page 76 of The Matchmaker

“Sure, but what’s his motive?” Borzu asks. “He thought you were up for a conversation and came over to interview you. He just wanted to cover the story right. He’s a persistent journalist, but it doesn’t make sense for him to try to hurt anyone.”

“Maybe he put things in motion to create the story of a lifetime,” Darcy says.

“He has all he needs to go viral,” Borzu points out. “He’s been three steps ahead of everyone this whole time.”

Borzu’s right. Despite all the information he has at his fingertips to write an explosive hit piece, he hasn’t.

“When the public finds out about the police inquiry into my whereabouts, and my car accident…” I shudder, imagining the press that will descend upon us. “I might have to permanently move into the Lowen.”

“How long are you staying there?” Genevieve asks.

“I’m not sure.”

“Those are some fancy digs,” Darcy says. “I pictured you as more of a historic B&B type of girl.”

“They had the best security of all the hotels I looked into.They’ve got discreet metal detectors at the entrance and armed security by the front desk. Between my own security detail and the hotel’s, I actually managed to sleep properly last night.”

“Sooner or later, whoever is doing this will slip up,” Genevieve says. “And we’ll be there to catch him when he does.”

I think of my conversation with Khala. Fiaz is dead, but he has a family.

“I have a few more names to look into,” I tell her. I jot down the Usmani family relatives I found on social media. The ones with features hauntingly similar to my own. I hope she won’t inquire further, and to my relief, she simply takes the paper from me and nods.

“How’s that online message board?” I ask. With everything that’s happened, it’s slipped my mind until now. “Are there any more replies?”

Darcy’s eyes dart to Genevieve and then Borzu. “There’s been no movement on the subreddit.”

“But?” I prompt.

“Thereisweirdness afoot,” Borzu admits. “People are trying to review-bomb our testimonial page. They’re not going to get anywhere with that since I approve whatever is posted, but it’s wild. See for yourself.” He types on his computer, then nods to the screen.

I’d give negative stars if I could! They took my money and fled. Save yourself the headache and get away from these con artists while you still can.—Simran

Worst agency and worst customer service. I was better off sticking to Bumble. At least it’s free and not a fraud!—J. Schaeffer

**SCAM ALERT** You know the story about the emperor who has no clothes? That’s the Piyar agency. Save your money and yourself!—Jenny Ho

My mouth feels dry. It’s not the reviews themselves. Review bombing happens—we got plenty after theVanity Fairpiece called us a throwback to arranged marriages. We normally pay it no mind. The ultrawealthy aren’t checking my Google reviews before signing me on. They’re relying on word of mouth, their friends and family members, those who can vouch for me personally and show them the tangible net positive my services added to their lives. But the review bombings of the past were disjointed, nonsensical rants. All of these people came straight to our own website to trash us.

“Why do they all say we took them on as clients?” I ask.

“I checked their names against our agency database,” Darcy says. “They’re not in the system. Not even from when your aunt was solo at the agency.”

“I’m guessing your name found its way into a toxic corner of the internet,” Borzu says. “Trolls love doing coordinated attacks, which explains why they’re so similar with their accusations that we’re scammers and why they all went to the same spot to leave their reviews. Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Borzu’s got this,” Genevieve tells me. “But we do have some pressing things to talk about. Like your phone.”

“What about my phone?” I curl my fingers protectively over it.

“Whoever is behind the car crash might have been tracking you that way.”

“I thought the phone was cleared of trackers.”

“It was, but nothing’s foolproof,” says Borzu. “Someone mayhave Trojan horsed it or something. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“So I ditch my phone?” I laugh a little and pretend my anxiety isn’t ramping up at the mere thought of putting it aside. My phone is an appendage at this point. “Can’t you wipe it clean? Add some extra layer of protection or something?”

“We need to be extra cautious. You don’t have to get rid of it. Just keep it at your home; you’re not there right now anyhow. For going out and about, use a burner. At least until we know what’s going on. That way, whoever is doing this can’t detect your movements—if that’s what’s going on.”

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