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?
Evidence in the Bedroom
I stayed at the hospital until midnight. Marcus’ vitals stayed stable. No change.
I drove to my son’s house in Hyde Park, a beautiful craftsman they’d bought two years ago. Marcus had been so proud, his first real home. I used my key to get in.
The place was neat, organized. Emma’s influence. I went upstairs to their bedroom, opened her laptop on the desk. No password. She’d always been careless about security; I’d warned Marcus about that.
I spent two hours going through files. Found a folder buried in her documents: DV personal.
Inside were photos, hundreds of them. Emma and Derek at restaurants, holding hands, at a beach house, kissing in hotel rooms, in bed together.
I found emails too. A trail going back 18 months. Derek promising to leave his wife. Emma talking about Marcus like he was a burden.
“He’s so boring,” she wrote in one. “All he talks about is bridges and blueprints.”
“Derek actually lives in another. I’m going to wait until after his dad’s retirement party. Then I’ll ask for the divorce. I want the house. I picked out everything anyway.”
That party had been 8 months ago. She’d been planning to leave him, but she’d waited. Why?
I found the answer in a spreadsheet labeled assets.xlsx. Emma had been documenting everything Marcus owned.
His 401k, his investment accounts, the house equity, even his vintage motorcycle collection. She’d been calculating a divorce settlement.
But more than that, she’d been tracking his business prospects. Marcus’ firm was about to land a major contract with the state, a $15 million bridge project. His share would be substantial.
Emma wasn’t just cheating. She was positioning herself for a profitable exit.
The Second Surgery
I sat back in the desk chair, my hands shaking not from fear, from rage.
My phone rang at 1:30 a.m. Miami Valley Hospital.
“Mr. Holloway, you need to come back. Your son’s blood pressure is dropping. We’re taking him back to surgery.”
I made it to the hospital in 12 minutes. Doctor Patel met me outside the OR.
“There’s internal bleeding we missed. We need to go back in.”
“Do whatever it takes.”
The second surgery took three hours. I sat in that waiting room alone, under fluorescent lights, watching the clock. Emma still hadn’t called, still hadn’t come.
At 4:50 a.m., I texted her: Marcus might not make it. Where are you?
She responded at 5:30 a.m.
“Oh my god, I just saw this. My phone was on silent. I’m in Florida for work. I’ll get the first flight back.”
I didn’t respond. I just screenshot her Instagram story from 2 hours earlier. Another photo by the pool, this time showing Derek’s face clearly. Both of them with drinks, laughing. Posted at 3:15 a.m.
She’d seen my message. She’d seen all my calls and she’d posted that photo anyway.
Dr. Patel came out at 6:30 a.m. Saturday morning.
“We’ve got him stabilized. We found a bleeder in his liver. He’s going to need extensive recovery, but he’s going to live.”
I sat down hard, relief flooding through me.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
“He’s strong. You should go home. Get some rest. We’ll keep him sedated for at least another 48 hours.”
The Legal Trap
I didn’t go home. I went back to Marcus’s house. I took Emma’s laptop. I took documents from her file cabinet: insurance policies, financial statements. I photographed everything with my phone.
Then I called my lawyer. Jennifer Morse had handled my divorce from my second wife 5 years ago. Tough as nails. Brilliant. No patience for games.
“Richard, it’s 6:00 in the morning on a Saturday.”
“Jenny, I need you. My son’s wife is cheating on him while he’s in ICU. I need to protect him.”
“Come to my office at 9:00 a.m. Bring everything you have.”
At 8:47 a.m., Emma called me. I let it ring twice before answering.
“Richard? Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get a flight last night. I’m at the airport now. How is he?”
Her voice was perfect. The right amount of panic, the right tremor of fear. If I hadn’t known better, I would have believed her.
“He’s alive. Barely. Second surgery this morning.”
“Oh no. Oh god. I should have been there. I’m such an idiot for not having my phone on. I’ll be there by this afternoon.”
“Where exactly are you, Emma?”
A pause. Half a second too long.
“West Palm Beach. A work conference.”
“Alone?”
“Of course alone. Richard, what kind of question is that?”
“Just asking. Your Instagram shows otherwise.”
Silence. Then, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Listen, my flight’s boarding. I’ll see you soon.”
She hung up. I smiled. Not a happy smile. The smile I used to give suspects when they thought they were smart enough to lie to a cop.
I met with Jenny at 9:00 a.m., showed her everything. The photos, the emails, the spreadsheets, the travel records.
She spread them across her conference table, putting on reading glasses, her expression darkening.
“This is premeditation,” she said. “She’s been setting up for a strategic divorce. The affair with Vance is one thing, but this financial planning shows intent. In Ohio, if we can prove she was planning to divorce and she’s committed adultery, she loses most of her claim to marital assets.”
“What do I need to do?”
“First we need to secure Marcus’s assets before she knows. We know. Do you have power of attorney?”
“No. That’s a problem.”
“He’s incapacitated, but she’s his wife. She has automatic medical and financial authority. There has to be something.”
Jenny tapped her pen on the table. “There might be. If we can show she abandoned him during a medical emergency and if she’s made financial moves against his interests, we could petition for emergency conservatorship. It’s rare, but given your background and the evidence of infidelity… Judge Martinez owes you a favor, doesn’t she?”
Judge Patricia Martinez. I’d testified in her courtroom dozens of times and I’d saved her nephew from a false accusation 5 years back.
“She does.”
“Let me make some calls. In the meantime, document everything. When does Emma get back?”
“She said this afternoon. Probably around 3:00 or 4:00 p.m.”
“Don’t confront her. Let her walk into this blind.”
