Chapter 3 - The Company With My Name
I had never heard of Mercer Strategic Holdings.
According to California corporate records, however, I had owned it for fourteen months.
Daniel showed me the documents inside a conference room at Northstar’s San Francisco office.
My name appeared everywhere.
Rachel Bennett Mercer.
My old Chicago address.
My date of birth.
Even a signature that looked enough like mine to survive a casual inspection.
But it was not mine.
“I didn’t sign this.”
“I know,” Daniel said.
“How?”
“Because whoever copied your signature used the version from your mortgage documents.”
I looked at him.
He slid two pages beside each other.
The forged signature had the same unusual upward stroke on the final r.
Identical.
Too identical.
Real signatures varied.
Copies did not.
My marriage had officially become a forensic exercise.
“What does the company do?”
“On paper? Strategic consulting.”
“And actually?”
Daniel leaned back.
“We’re still finding out.”
Through the glass wall, San Francisco moved under pale afternoon light. People carried coffee, checked phones, crossed streets.
Normal life looked offensive.
“Where’s Grant?”
“Halcyon suspended him pending investigation.”
“Lauren?”
“Also suspended.”
I laughed softly.
“Good day for everybody.”
Daniel did not smile.
“There’s something else you should know.”
“Apparently that’s the theme.”
“The shell company received three payments totaling $1.8 million.”
My mouth went dry.
“From whom?”
“Another entity connected to Calder.”
I stood.
I needed movement.
“If someone wanted to frame me, why use a company with my married name?”
“Because it makes the trail obvious enough to find.”
I stopped.
“You think I was supposed to be caught.”
“I think somebody wanted investigators to stop at you.”
That evening, I checked into a hotel under my maiden name.
Grant called seventeen times.
I answered the eighteenth.
“What?”
His breathing came through first.
“Thank God.”
“Don’t thank anybody yet.”
“Rachel, I need to see you.”
“No.”
“They’re setting you up.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you’re not useful to me.”
“Rachel—”
“Did you sleep with Lauren?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her you were leaving me?”
Another silence.
“Yes.”
That one hurt differently.
“Were you?”
“I thought I was.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His answer took too long.
“Because I love you.”
I closed my eyes.
“No. Try again.”
“Rachel.”
“You were having an affair for four months. You told her you were leaving. You didn’t. That isn’t love. That’s indecision with collateral damage.”
He exhaled.
“I was ashamed.”
“You should be.”
“I know.”
“No, Grant. You know you got caught. I don’t know whether you understand anything else.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “Mercer Strategic Holdings was created using documents from our home.”
I sat upright.
“How do you know?”
“Because I found copies missing from the fireproof box.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I thought Lauren had taken them.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“Why?”
“Because she had access to my office. She’d been asking questions about Calder. I started thinking she was using me.”
The cruelty of that sentence stunned me.
“You were sleeping with her while investigating her?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Every guilty husband in America should have that engraved on a plaque.”
“I deserve that.”
“You deserve much worse.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
He did.
Then I asked, “Why were you afraid when you saw me on the plane?”
“Because of Lauren.”
“Only Lauren?”
A long pause.
“No.”
There it was.
“What else?”
“I was supposed to meet someone tonight.”
“Who?”
“A Calder executive named Marcus Vale.”
I knew the name.
Chief financial officer.
“Why?”
“He contacted me anonymously six weeks ago. Said someone inside Halcyon was manipulating valuation models and using Northstar information.”
“Did he give you proof?”
“Some.”
“Send it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I gave it to Lauren.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“You gave evidence of corporate fraud to your mistress?”
“She was compliance.”
“She was also sleeping with you.”
“I trusted her.”
“So did I.”
That silenced him.
A knock sounded at my hotel door.
I froze.
“Rachel?”
Another knock.
“Ms. Bennett? Hotel delivery.”
I had ordered nothing.
“Grant, where are you?”
“My hotel.”
“Which one?”
“The Fairmont.”
Mine was nowhere near it.
I walked quietly toward the door and looked through the peephole.
A man in a gray jacket stood outside holding an envelope.
“Who is it?” Grant asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t open it.”
I almost laughed at the absurdity of taking safety advice from him.
The man slid the envelope under the door and walked away.
I waited.
Then picked it up.
My name was handwritten across the front.
Inside was a photograph.
Grant and Lauren entering a hotel together in Chicago.
Date-stamped seven weeks earlier.
Behind it was another photograph.
Me leaving Northstar.
Then another.
My mother entering her house.
My blood turned cold.
There was one line written on the final photograph.
ASK YOUR HUSBAND WHAT HE DID WITH THE ORIGINAL FILE.
“Grant.”
“What?”
“What original file?”
Nothing.
“Grant.”
“I need to come to you.”
“No. Answer.”
“I can’t explain it over the phone.”
“Then try.”
He breathed out.
“Marcus gave me a drive.”
“What was on it?”
“Internal communications. Payments. Names.”
“Whose names?”
“Executives from Halcyon. Calder. People at Northstar.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who at Northstar?”
“I don’t know. The files were encrypted.”
“Where is the drive?”
“I hid it.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
I looked again at the photograph of my mother.
“Where at home?”
“In your grandmother’s clock.”
I stopped breathing.
The antique mantel clock sat in our living room.
It had belonged to my grandmother.
Grant knew I never let anyone touch it.
“Why would you put it there?”
“Because nobody would look.”
“You did.”
“Rachel, listen. If somebody knows about that drive, they may go to the condo.”
Then another thought hit me.
“Our security system.”
“What?”
“I gave temporary access to a contractor last month.”
“What contractor?”
“The kitchen leak.”
Grant went silent.
We had never had a kitchen leak.
“Rachel,” he said slowly, “I didn’t hire a contractor.”
I opened the security app.
The access history appeared.
Three entries using the temporary code.
The first was four weeks ago.
The second, nine days ago.
The third—
My heart stopped.
“Someone entered the condo twenty minutes ago.”
Grant swore.
I called Chicago police.
Then my mother.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Rachel? Aren’t you supposed to be in California?”
“Mom, listen to me. Lock your doors.”
A pause.
“What happened?”
“Just do it.”
“All right.”
“Don’t answer for anyone.”
“Rachel, you’re frightening me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
I stayed on the phone until she confirmed everything was locked.
Then Grant spoke.
“I’m flying home.”
“No.”
“I have to get that drive.”
“You’re not going anywhere near it.”
“Rachel—”
“The police are going.”
He was silent.
Then I heard something in his voice I had not expected.
Relief.
“Good.”
The Chicago police called forty minutes later.
Our condo had been searched.
Not robbed.
Searched.
Drawers opened.
Papers disturbed.
Nothing valuable taken.
Except one thing.
My grandmother’s clock was smashed on the living room floor.
The hidden compartment was empty.
The drive was gone.
And beneath the broken clock, police found an envelope.
Inside was a photograph from my wedding.
Grant and I were standing beneath white lights, laughing.
Someone had drawn a red line through his face.
May you like
Not mine.
His.
