Chapter 6: Mercer and Associates
The HR office at Harold's firm was on the fourth floor, a small room with frosted glass walls and two chairs facing a desk.
Diane was in her fifties, neat and measured, the kind of person who delivered difficult information without drama.
She waited until I was seated before she began.
"Thank you for coming in.
As I said, Harold is physically fine.
He's currently with his manager." She folded her hands on the desk.
"Mrs.
Calloway, are you aware of Harold's relationship with Rachel Voss?"
There was the name again.
"He told me she's a colleague."
"She is.
Was." Diane paused.
"Ms.
Voss resigned this morning.
Before she left, she submitted a formal complaint to HR.
The complaint involves Harold."
The frosted glass.
The two chairs.
The careful, measured voice.
"What kind of complaint?" I asked.
"Ms.
Voss alleges that she and Harold had a personal relationship outside of work that she describes as emotionally significant.
She states that Harold ended contact abruptly three weeks ago without explanation and that this has affected her ability to work." Diane kept her eyes on me.
"I want to be clear — this is an allegation at this stage.
Harold has not confirmed the nature of their relationship.
But given the complaint, HR is required to investigate."
I sat very still.
"He told me she was just a colleague."
"That may be his position.
It may also be accurate.
We don't know yet." Diane slid a single sheet across the desk.
"This is the formal notification.
You don't have to do anything with it today.
But we felt his emergency contact should be informed."
I looked at the paper without picking it up.
Rachel Voss.
The name in writing now, not just spoken in a hallway.
*She wished things were different.*
"Can I see him?" I asked.
"He's asked to speak with you, yes.
He's down the hall."
Harold was sitting in a larger office, alone, jacket off, tie loosened.
He looked up when I came in.
He looked like a man who had run out of road.
"I was going to tell you tonight," he said.
"Tell me now."
He looked at the table.
"It didn't become physical.
I need you to know that first."
"Harold."
"We talked.
For months, we talked.
After work, sometimes.
Messages.
She — it felt like she understood what I was going through.
The pressure here, the—" He stopped.
"I know how that sounds."
"Did you have feelings for her?"
A long pause.
"I thought I might be developing them.
That's why I ended it three weeks ago.
Because I didn't want it to become something I couldn't come back from."
I looked at my husband.
Eight years.
The man who'd taken a door off its hinges to defend our bedroom.
The man who'd held my hand in the hallway and said *don't panic.*
"You deleted the messages this morning," I said.
"Before you left."
"Yes."
"Because you knew I might look."
"Yes."
The room was very quiet.
"I need to go home," I said.
"I know." He stood.
"I'll come with you."
"No." I picked up my bag.
"Not yet."
I walked out of the office, past Diane's frosted glass room, and pressed the button for the elevator.
Grace was sitting in the lobby downstairs.
She'd come with me.
Of course she had.
She stood when she saw my face.
"Well?" she said.
I looked at her — this woman who had invaded our home, taken our door, gone through her son's phone, and somehow, in the most infuriating way possible, had been the one to find the crack in the wall before it became a fracture.
"Don't say anything," I told her.
"Not yet.
Just take me home."
May you like
She didn't say a word.
She held the door open and walked me to the car.
