My Son Is In A Coma After A Horrific Accident. While He Was Fighting For His Life, I Discovered Where His Wife Really Was. Should I Confront Her Now Or Wait Until I Take Everything?
The Call at 2:47 A.M.
I didn’t call ahead, I didn’t text. I just drove straight to Miami Valley Hospital from the airport, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel of the rental car.
The call had come at 2:47 a.m. My son Marcus was in surgery after a motorcycle accident on Route 75. Massive internal bleeding, fractured skull.
The nurse said it was touch-and-go. What she didn’t say, what I had to find out myself, was that his wife Emma wasn’t there.
She wasn’t in the waiting room. She wasn’t pacing the ICU hallways like I was at 5:30 that morning, watching doctors rush in and out of operating room 3. She wasn’t anywhere near Cincinnati.
When I finally got my son’s phone from the property clerk—they’d cut his jacket off him at the scene—I saw the location sharing was still on. Emma’s little avatar smiled at me from the screen: West Palm Beach, The Breakers Resort.
My boy was dying and his wife was at a five-star resort three states away.
I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up. My name is Richard Holloway. I’m 63 years old, retired homicide detective, Cincinnati PD, 32 years on the force.
My son Marcus is 34, a civil engineer who designs bridges. Good kid, smart, maybe too trusting, but I raised him to see the best in people.
His mother died when he was 15. Cancer took her in six months, and after that, it was just the two of us. I put him through Ohio State, watched him graduate top of his class.
Walked him down the aisle 3 years ago when he married Emma Chen, a pharmaceutical sales rep with a smile that could sell ice to Eskimos. I had reservations about Emma from the start.
Not because of anything concrete, just a cop’s instinct—the way she’d check her phone during family dinners, how she’d steer Marcus toward business opportunities that always seemed to benefit her friends.
But Marcus loved her, and I kept my mouth shut. That’s what fathers do, right? We watch our kids make their own choices, even when we see the train wreck coming.
The Crash and the Empty Waiting Room
The accident happened on Thursday, October 12th, at 11:20 p.m. Marcus was riding home from a site inspection in Dayton.
A drunk driver in a pickup truck ran a red light at the Harrison Avenue intersection, T-boned him at 45 miles per hour. The bike was totaled. Marcus went airborne, landed on the pavement.
Witnesses said he wasn’t moving. I got the call from Detective Ramirez—she’d been my partner’s daughter, now on the force herself—at 2:47 a.m. Friday morning.
I was in Charlotte visiting my sister. I booked the first flight out at 6:00 a.m., landed in Cincinnati at 8:15, and was at the hospital by 9:00.
The waiting room outside the ICU smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. I asked the nurse, a tired-looking woman named Patricia, about Emma.
“Mrs. Holloway, she’s not here yet. We’ve been calling the number on file.”
“Keep trying,” I said. But I already knew. I knew in my gut.
The surgery took 7 hours. Dr. Patel came out at 2:30 p.m., still in his scrubs, exhausted.
“Mr. Holloway, your son is stable. We had to remove his spleen, repair his liver, and reduce the skull fracture. He’s in a medically-induced coma. The next 72 hours are critical.”
“When can I see him?”
“Give us an hour to get him settled in the ICU.”
Digital Forensics
I sat back down and pulled out Marcus’ phone again. I’d been a detective long enough to know basic digital forensics. Emma’s location was still showing West Palm Beach.
I opened her credit card app. Marcus had shared his accounts with me after the wedding. A smart financial planning move, he’d said.
I scrolled through the charges. Thursday, October 11th, 4:47 p.m.: Delta Airlines, Cincinnati to West Palm Beach, $387.
Thursday, October 11th, 9:23 p.m.: The Breakers Palm Beach, room charge, $892. Thursday, October 11th, 10:15 p.m.: HMF Bar at the Breakers, $237.
Friday, October 12th, 8:30 a.m.: Flaggler Steakhouse, $156. Friday, October 12th, 11:45 a.m.: Opa, $340.
My son had his accident at 11:20 p.m. Thursday. Emma had been drinking at a hotel bar at 10:15, an hour before he nearly died. She’d been at the spa that morning while he was in surgery.
I pulled up her Instagram, private account, but Marcus followed her. I logged in as him. Her most recent story was posted two hours ago: a photo of a mimosa by the pool. Caption reading: much needed R and R.
The next photo made my vision blur. Emma in a white bikini, leaning against someone. A man’s arm around her waist.
His face was cut off, but I could see enough: expensive watch, tanned skin, resort cabana in the background. Posted Thursday night at 9:47 p.m. Caption: Paradise found.
Calling in the Pros
I sat there in that waiting room staring at my phone, feeling something cold and sharp twist in my chest. My son was upstairs with a cracked skull and no spleen, and his wife was posting vacation photos with another man.
I made a call.
“Tony, it’s Richard.”
Tony Delgado was a retired FBI agent I’d worked with on a task force 15 years back. Now he ran a private investigation firm.
“Rich, long time. What do you need?”
“I need eyes on someone. West Palm Beach, the Breakers Resort. Woman named Emma Chen Holloway, 29 years old. I need to know who she’s with, how long she’s been there, everything.”
“When do you need this?”
“Yesterday.”
“Give me 4 hours.”
I went up to see Marcus at 3:45 p.m. The ICU was cold and sterile, machines beeping in rhythm.
My son looked small in that bed, tubes coming out of him, bandages wrapped around his head. His face was swollen, bruised purple and yellow. A ventilator breathed for him.
I pulled a chair close and took his hand.
“Hey kiddo, it’s Dad. You’re going to be okay. You’re strong like your mom was. You fight this.”
A nurse came in to check vitals. I asked her, “Has his wife called?”
“Not that I’m aware of, sir, but I just started my shift.”
I called Emma myself at 4:30 p.m. It rang four times, then voicemail. Her voice cheerful and bright.
“Hi, can’t get to the phone right now. Leave me a message.”
“Emma, it’s Richard. Marcus was in a bad accident. He’s in ICU at Miami Valley Hospital. You need to call me immediately.”
I kept my voice level. Neutral. Gave her the benefit of the doubt, even though I knew.
The Investigator’s Report
Tony called back at 6:15 p.m.
“Rich, you sitting down? Talk to me.”
“Emma Chen Holloway checked into the Breakers on Thursday afternoon with a man named Derek Vance, age 37, lives in Columbus, Ohio. He’s a regional director for Meridian Pharmaceuticals, same company Emma works for.”
“They’ve got connecting rooms, but my guy watched them come back together at 11:00 p.m. Thursday night. They had dinner at the hotel restaurant last night. Lunch today. Currently at the pool bar.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“I pulled their travel history. This is their fourth trip together in 6 months. Miami in July, Scottsdale in August, Charleston in September. Always overlapping business trips on the company card.”
“They’re not sloppy. They book separate rooms, file separate expense reports, but they’re together.”
I felt something inside me click into place. The detective mode I’d honed over three decades.
“Get me everything. Financial records, phone logs, emails if you can get them. I want to know how deep this goes.”
“Rich, whatever you’re planning…”
“I’m not planning anything. I’m protecting my son. Call me when you have more.”
