Peter's Return. Cynthia Cooke

not liking it.

      He looked at her like she had the brains of a snail. “Make sure you don’t pop in on Mr. Escalante unannounced again. It wouldn’t be healthy,” Snake said evenly. Something in his tone, in his expression, scared her more than the quivering, unhinged Esteban.

      “Do you think it’s possible to get someone else to ‘serve’ us other than Esteban?”

      “No,” he said, then gestured her forward.

      “Great,” she muttered, and let him lead her back down the hall to the hospital wing. Where was she and who exactly was Mr. Baltasar Escalante? And what did he have to do with Peter?

      They had been talking quite seriously when she’d walked in, something about kilos. Emily stiffened as the word ran through her mind. She could no longer ignore the trepidation skittering down her spine. There was only one thing she knew of that came in kilos. Drugs.

      She stole a glance behind her at Snake. Why hadn’t she seen it before? They weren’t the guests of an eccentric millionaire worried about his son; they were the prisoners of a drug lord. A cold sweat washed over her. What did that say about Peter?

      When they reached the hospital wing, Emily sat on the sofa and tried to still her pounding heart. Is this where Peter has been for the past three years? Why hadn’t he called anyone? Why hadn’t he cared that no one had known whether he was dead or alive? Her shoulders sagged as she dropped her face in her hands.

      She hadn’t let herself dwell on it, hadn’t wanted to face the implications of such a sustained absence. A part of her hoped he was alive, but she hadn’t known for sure. Now she did. But was he trafficking in drugs?

      She thought of all the damage drugs did to the users and their families and all the problems they’d had in Colorado Springs lately—the increase in victims of violence at the Galilee Women’s Shelter and all the overdoses at the hospital. She sighed. No, the Peter she knew could never be involved with drugs. Maybe he was still with the CIA? He could be working undercover, that would explain why no one had heard from him for so long. And why he didn’t want Baltasar to know they knew each other. Either scenario meant he wouldn’t be much help to her and Robert. She would always come second to his job, no matter what it was. She always had.

      She thought back to their marriage and how much she’d loved him, and the more she loved him the more afraid she’d grown as he became more and more entranced with his job. She knew it wouldn’t have been long before he’d be working undercover, going on dangerous assignments and getting himself killed. The explosion that put him in the hospital was a real eye-opener for her, and she knew she couldn’t live that way—always wondering, always worrying.

      She’d made an impulsive and emotional decision to walk out on their marriage. Then she’d waited for him to come home and tell her how foolish she’d been, to assure her that he’d be fine, that he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks, that he wouldn’t put his job before their marriage. But he never came. He hadn’t loved her enough to fight for her. He accepted her reasons and let her walk away, even though it was the last thing she wanted. Tears stung the back of her eyes. No, as always, she was on her own.

      “Emily?”

      She opened her eyes to find Robert staring down at her.

      “Is everything all right?”

      She shook her head, but couldn’t find the words to speak. Peter is here. She wished she could tell him, but she’d been the wife of a CIA agent long enough to know better. She patted the couch next to her. After he sat, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “I believe Escalante is a drug lord.”

      “What?”

      “I heard him talking about kilos. We have to get out of here.”

      “I agree, but how?”

      “I don’t know.” Certainly not by counting on Peter. He hadn’t even batted an eye at seeing her again. The tears she’d been trying so desperately to keep at bay flooded her eyes. Peter had been her husband. She should be able to count on his help. She should be able to depend on him.

      Robert placed an arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. “It’s going to be all right. God will hear our prayers.”

      “I hope so,” she whispered, but somehow she didn’t think He was listening.