surname.
Except Adrian had told me his sister’s name only hours earlier.
Caroline.
Leukemia.
And Prescott Health was listed in the Northbridge documents.
My phone rang.
Ethan.
This time I answered.
Neither of us spoke at first.
Then he said, “Elena?”
I nearly hung up at the sound of his voice.
Five years of marriage lived inside two syllables.
Good mornings.
Arguments.
Birthday dinners.
Lily’s first cry in the delivery room.
Nights waiting for him to come home.
The sound of keys turning in a lock.
“Why is Caroline Prescott in your email?”
Silence.
Then Ethan exhaled.
“You found it.”
“You told me to.”
“I wasn’t sure you still had those messages.”
“What is Northbridge?”
“Elena—”
“No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say my name like you’re preparing me for something.”
A pause.
“I’m not.”
“You always do.”
He didn’t answer.
I stood and walked toward the window.
Below me,
