Adrian.
The suite at the Panama Marriott wasn't where I'd expected to find myself on a Wednesday morning, but then again, nothing about the past two months had gone according to plan.
Starting with my wife's death.
Except she wasn't dead.
I stared at the surveillance photos spread across the mahogany desk—images of Scarlett walking through markets, laughing with street vendors, looking lighter and freer than I'd ever seen her in four years of marriage. Images that proved the woman I'd mourned, the woman whose "death" had nearly destroyed me, was alive and well and hiding in Central America.
The rage should have consumed me. Should have made me want to drag her back to Chicago and make her pay for every second of grief she'd caused.
Instead, all I felt was desperate, consuming need to
