The call came early enough to feel intrusive, the kind of early that carries weight before a single word is spoken. When I saw my brother’s name light up my phone, I knew instinctively that this wasn’t a casual check-in from Hawaii. Luca had left New Jersey years ago with a single suitcase and stubborn optimism, worked his way up from night clerk to managing a small beachfront hotel on Oahu, and learned to sound relaxed even when he was putting out fires. That morning, though, his voice was stripped of its usual calm.
He asked me a simple question that cracked my world open: where was my husband. I answered without hesitation, repeating the story Ethan had given me with practiced ease. New York. Meetings. Tight schedule. Luca didn’t argue, didn’t accuse, didn’t raise his voice. He just corrected me. My husband wasn’t in Manhattan. He was in Hawaii, in Luca’s hotel, checked into a room overlooking the ocean, and he wasn’t alone. As Luca spoke, details stacked up like evidence in a courtroom. The time stamp. The room number. The familiar flourish of Ethan’s signature. The debit card that belonged to me.
