Chapter 3 - MERCER WOMEN’S LOGISTICS
I first heard the company name while sitting in my car outside an ultrasound appointment.
Agent Ortiz called.
“Mrs. Harrow, do you own Mercer Women’s Logistics LLC?”
“No.”
“Have you ever owned it?”
“No.”
“Have you authorized anyone to create a company in your name?”
“No.”
Silence.
Then:
“Are you certain?”
That made me angry.
“I’m thirty-two, not ninety-two.”
“I have to ask.”
“Fine. No.”
She requested an interview.
I called Naomi.
We met the next day.
The federal file they showed me was limited.
Beneficial ownership certification:
Sloane Mercer Harrow — 51%.
Operating manager:
Daniel Pike.
Address:
A Harrow Meridian warehouse office.
Business category:
Medical logistics and emergency supply distribution.
I stared.
“Why fifty-one?”
Ortiz said:
“That is one of our questions.”
My digital signature appeared beneath the ownership declaration.
It looked close.
Not exact.
My real signature leaned aggressively forward.
The one on the form looked careful.
Someone trying to produce me.
Then tax ID documents.
A business bank account.
No money paid directly to my personal accounts.
Good.
So this was not:
Secret millions Sloane forgot.
The company had received substantial payments from Harrow Response Solutions.
How substantial?
They did not tell me then.
“Did Julian ever discuss a woman-owned subcontractor with you?”
“No.”
“Victoria?”
“No.”
“Any Harrow executive?”
“No.”
Ortiz slid a photograph across the table.
A reception.
Julian.
Victoria.
Daniel Pike.
Me.
I remembered it.
A hospital foundation gala.
“What is this supposed to show?”
“The company’s vendor packet identifies this as a management meeting.”
I laughed.
“I was there for twenty minutes. I left because I was nauseous.”
“When?”
“First trimester.”
“Did you discuss federal contracts?”
“No.”
“Medical logistics?”
“No.”
“Mercer Women’s Logistics?”
“No.”
I looked again.
The photograph had been cropped.
In the original, I was probably holding sparkling water while trying not to vomit.
In the vendor packet, I was evidence of management participation.
That frightened me.
Someone was not merely using my name.
Someone was constructing a history.
Ortiz told me not to contact Harrow staff.
I agreed.
Then I made my first mistake.
That evening I asked Julian casually:
“What’s Mercer Women’s Logistics?”
His fork stopped.
Only half a second.
Enough.
Then he smiled.
“Why?”
“I saw the name on something.”
“What?”
“Can’t remember.”
He shrugged.
“Probably one of Response’s subcontractors.”
“Mercer?”
“Coincidence.”
I watched him.
He did not ask where I saw it again.
That bothered me more.
Later that night I found him in his office on a phone call with the door closed.
When I entered, he ended it.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Work.”
May you like
He kissed my forehead.
That was the night I stopped being able to tell whether tenderness from my husband was real or tactical.
