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saying a silent prayer that when I flipped on the light switch, I would see him lying in our bed, fast asleep. I prayed that there wouldn’t be blood—that he wouldn’t lying there dead. I closed my eyes and flipped on the switch, terrified of what I would find when I opened them. The throbbing in my head had been replaced by the sound of my heart thrashing in my ears. My lungs were burning, barely able to find any breath at all.
    I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to know—I was sure I couldn’t face it, his dead body that I was sure was going to be there—lying in the bed we had just shared only a few moments before. It seemed like it was only a few minutes ago, anyway, that we had fallen asleep entwined together—after he had insisted that I would never sleep anywhere but in his arms ever again.
    I had to force myself to open my eyes—force myself to look at what I was sure was going to be a scene out of a horror movie. I opened one eye—just a slit—and peered over at the bed. There was nothing.
    The breath I had been holding came out in a long sigh, and I walked into the bedroom, making my way over to the bathroom door. I looked inside—it was also empty. Brandon wasn’t here. The bed was neatly made and it looked like nothing was out of place. There were no drawers open; the closet door was closed. It was all just a little too perfect. Brandon wasn’t a slob, by any means, but he was a guy … there was always something out of place—something on the floor or a drawer left open a crack. Wherever he had gone, he had straightened up our bedroom before he left. Or someone had.
    I sat down on the edge of the bed in front of the dresser we shared. It wasn’t like it was a formal situation or anything, but I had taken the top two drawers, and he had taken the bottom two. There wasn’t a lot in there—I only had the clothes that I’d had with me when I’d left the hotel in D.C. the week before. I hadn’t packed to move in here—I only had enough here to fill two drawers and a small space in the closet. He had brought more appropriate clothing—Brandon was a planner, and that was something I had known about him since I had met him. Something I admired about him. Loved about him. He had brought clothing with him that was appropriate for a Montana winter. I had clothes that were much more suited to doing press conferences and interviews—the lifestyle I had been so desperate to leave behind.
    That life seemed like it had ended a million years ago, and it was hard to believe it had only been a week since we had come here—come to this little tiny cabin located in a place I hadn’t known existed before seven days ago. I could barely remember that life of doing my parents’ bidding and always being aware of the cameras and press. I had never understood the fascination the public had with my family, and I knew I probably never would. Living here in Montana with Brandon—even though it had only been a week—had been one of the best weeks of my life. Not having to put on makeup every day; not having to think about my facial expressions or what I was going to wear… It had been like a gift. A gift he had given me.
    I looked down and saw the blood on my yellow Hoyas t-shirt. I stood up and glanced into the mirror above the dresser. I gingerly touched the cut on my forehead. The dried blood from the deep cut was caked in my brown hair and around the wound, and had dripped down around my ear to the neck of the t-shirt. Just the way the blood had run down the side of my head, I could see I must have been lying down after it had happened. I must have fallen—hit my head somehow.
    I sat back down on the bed and tried to remember. The last thing I remembered before waking up on the kitchen floor was being with Brandon. Feeling his hands on my wet skin. When I closed my eyes, I could still feel my body thrumming under his touch … how he held me.
    We had gone to bed after that—after the shower. He had made