My brother, Luca Moretti, runs a small beachfront hotel on Oahu. We were raised in New Jersey in a family that counted expenses and argued over phone bills, so when Luca called me at 7:12 a.m., the tension in his voice told me immediately something was wrong.
“Claire,” he said, dropping my married name the way he only did when he was anxious, “where is Ethan?” “My husband?” I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “He left yesterday. New York. Client meetings.” There was a brief silence, then Luca released a slow breath. “No. He checked into my hotel…
