I stand in the center of the room that used to be a sanctuary. This place where Santino and I shared breaths, whispers, and a passion that I now realize was laced with poison. I am dressed simply in a black tank top that clings to my skin and a pair of worn jeans. I feel light, almost weightless, as if the person who lived in this room before has already evaporated into the air.

I take a slow, deliberate breath. The room is perfect. It is hauntingly clean. The beds are made with sharp, ...