Then, on a frozen Saturday morning, he spotted her at a café in Hoboken. She was sitting across from an expensively dressed man Ethan had never seen. They weren’t touching, but the way they leaned in, the intensity of the conversation, made his chest cave in. The man slid a thick manila envelope across the table. Lena opened it, scanned the contents, and pressed a hand to her mouth—shock, fear, maybe both. The man reached over and squeezed her fingers. She nodded, eyes shining with tears.
Ethan left before she saw him.
That night she came home empty-handed, claiming she’d just “needed some air.” She looked exhausted, brittle. When he asked if everything was okay, she said yes too quickly and disappeared into the bedroom.
The following week Ethan called in sick and drove back to Locust Valley. He parked a block away, half-hoping, half-dreading he’d see something that would finally make sense of the chaos inside him. At 11:07 a.m. a black Range Rover rolled through the gates. Behind the wheel was the same polished stranger from the café.