Chapter 7
I woke up on the futon in the back of the shop at six fifteen. The rain had stopped. Light came in gray through the high shop window and lit the dust on the tool chest. My phone was on the concrete floor beside me, screen dark, still holding the recording and the two copies I'd emailed to myself the night before.
I made coffee on the hot plate and sat with my hands around the mug until it was warm enough to drink. I didn't replay the file. I didn't need to hear it again.
At seven thirty I texted her: I'm getting breakfast. Still want to go together?
She replied in under a minute: Yes. Can you pick me up at 8? Please don't go without me.
I pulled up in front of our apartment at eight oh two. She came out in navy scrubs, hair pulled back, a light jacket zipped to her throat despite the damp. She didn't look pregnant. She looked tired.
"HR is at the county health building on Walnut," she said as she got in. "Not the clinic. The county handles the contract."
"Okay," I said. "We ask about policy first. No names unless we decide."
She nodded and stared out the window. The diner was two blocks away. The neon was off now. A delivery truck was parked out front.
The county health building smelled like old carpet and cleaner. The HR office was on the second floor, a suite with a frosted glass door that said HUMAN RESOURCES in block letters. A woman at the front desk smiled and asked if we had an appointment.
"No," I said. "We had a general question about vendor policy. Just ten minutes if someone's free."
She checked her screen. "Let me see if Sandra has a moment."
We waited in two low chairs. My wife kept her hands folded in her lap, picking at a cuticle. A cork board on the wall had the same Small Town Stronger Together poster from the diner, thumbtacked crooked.
Sandra was in her fifties, blazer, glasses on a chain. She ushered us into a small conference room with a table for six and a box of tissues in the middle.
"How can I help you folks?" she asked, closing the door.
I kept my voice even. "My wife is a tech at the clinic on Route 22. Vendors come through a couple times a week. We wanted to understand what the written policy is if a vendor pressures a staff member outside work. Like job threats, or tie to promotions."
Sandra's smile tightened just a little. "We have a very clear code of conduct. No vendor should be contacting staff about personnel matters. If something happened, we'd want details to look into it."
My wife spoke for the first time. "It's hypothetical," she said quickly. "We're just asking what the process is."
Sandra looked between us. "Hypothetical, then the process is a formal report, names, dates, then we notify the vendor's employer. But without specifics I can only give you the handbook." She slid a stapled packet across the table. "Vendor Relations, page four."
I turned to page four. The language was generic. Maintain professional boundaries. Report concerns to supervisor.
"And if the vendor has a relationship with a supervisor?" I asked. "Like if the supervisor is Jeff Miller?"
At Jeff's name Sandra stopped writing. Her pen hovered.
"Jeff is a good man," she said carefully. "He's managed that clinic for eight years. Are you saying Jeff is involved in something?"
"No," my wife said, too fast. "We aren't saying anyone did anything. We were just — we heard something and wanted to know."
The room got quiet. The air conditioner kicked on.
Sandra closed her folder. "I can tell you this," she said, in a softer voice meant to be helpful. "If you make an allegation against a contracted vendor without documentation, the county tends to defer to the vendor company to handle it internally. They don't want to lose a supplier over a he-said she-said. Especially now with staffing shortages."
I felt my jaw tighten. "Even with a recording?"
Sandra's eyes flicked to my pocket, where my phone was. "If you have something you should file it properly with your supervisor first. Chain of command matters here."
My wife stood up abruptly. "Thank you, that's helpful," she said. "We appreciate your time."
In the hallway she walked ahead of me, shoulders high. At the elevator she pressed the button three times.
"Chain of command is Jeff," she said in a low voice. "Jeff who plays golf with Marcus. That's what she just told us."
"I heard it," I said.
Outside on the sidewalk she pulled her jacket tighter. "You see why I didn't want to come? Now they know my face. They know I was asking about Jeff."
"We didn't give names about the rest," I said. "But you're right. They protect the contract first."
She looked at me, eyes wet. "So what do we do? You promised you wouldn't go to Jeff."
"I won't," I said. "But Sandra just told us HR won't do anything without a formal report that goes right back to him. We need someone outside that loop."
"Who?" she asked.
I thought about the sheriff's office on Main, the way small counties work. "Maybe not HR," I said. "Maybe we need to ask a lawyer what this recording actually is, legally, before anyone else hears it."
She nodded, wiping under one eye. "Okay. But can we not do it today? I have to go in. I'm already late."
I walked her to her car. She hesitated before getting in.
"Thank you for not playing it in there," she said.
May you like
"I said I wouldn't use it to embarrass you," I said. "I meant it."
She drove off toward Route 22, and I stood on Walnut with the handbook in my hand, watching the traffic pass toward Harrisburg, realizing the building that was supposed to help had just shown us the exact door that was closed.
