When I picked up the letter I almost had a heart attack. I had driven home to support Khalil. Now here I was sitting on the floor of the foyer on my knees, crying as I read the words over and over again.

Next to the letter, his cell phone was shattered in thirty pieces. I read his words once more, emotion took control of me, and I began screaming “no, no” at the top of my lungs. As I cried on the floor it was a battle for me not to hyperventilate. My head was spinning as the temperature in the room felt like it went up to one hundred and ten degrees. Without warning I leaned forward and began to vomit. My world had unraveled just when I believed that I had put it all together so tightly that I’d never have a care. When I believed that I’d never be alone.

I barely made it up the steps to the bed as I clutched the letter in one hand. I called his phone to leave a message but I got nothing. He’d turned off his answering ser vice.

I lost track of how many times I called his phone as the thought of sleeping never even crossed my mind. When the sunlight began to burst through the windows of the bedroom I realized that I was close to losing my mind.

I don’t know when it happened but eventually I passed out from the exhaustion. When I woke up it was late in the afternoon. I tried every number that I had for Khalil’s friends. It was a short list. As I expected, no one had seen or heard from him. He had called Frannie and told her that when I called to let me know that I was not to call the police or his friends looking for him. He also sent word to please respect his wishes and not to be home when he came to get his things.

Frannie was extremely short with me. As if she was a mother protecting her child.

I sat in the kitchen all day and waited for him to change his mind. By the time the sun set, I’d driven past his house only to see the tenants coming out of the door. Another sleepless night was waiting for me as my pain began to give way to the rage and confusion. Priest had gone too far. No one else would have done it.

He would pay with everything he had. This was the last time that anyone would screw me over.

For three nights straight I tossed and turned as I teetered on the brink of a breakdown every time I breathed. “Khalil please come home to me. Please,” I begged him in my dreams. He cursed me out and called me out of name, but at least he was there. Waking up and finding out that I was alone was the real nightmare.

At seven A.M. I walked into my closet and grabbed my safe from underneath the carpet. I pulled out the portable hard-drive storage key and uploaded the contents into my computer.

Then I logged on to the computer and got the numbers to the Enquirer and the Star. What I did next, I did for free. I outed Priest Alexander and e-mailed the photos to Wendy Williams. After that I called the Miami Police Department and gave them an anonymous tip regarding information on both of the Bobbsey Twins and shared the theory of possible foul play on Priest’s part.

By noon I’d set the wheels in motion to destroy his life just as he’d destroyed mine. I didn’t leave the house, I didn’t make another phone call, nor did I bother to shower. I sat on the sofa until the sun set again, waiting for my nightmare to end. I imagined how Priest was feeling now that I’d struck back. But even the revenge didn’t do much to abate the pain that I felt without Khalil.

I had to find him. I had to make him understand why I’d done the things I had. He had to know how much I loved him.

At around eleven I climbed off of the couch, forced to the refrigerator by the hunger pains. I thought about the baby growing inside of me and how Khalil requested that I abort. There was no way I would do that. If nothing else I believed that his child might be the only way I’d keep him in my life. I had to eat to take care of the baby.

I turned on the television as I prepared an egg sandwich and out of curiosity I flipped on ESPN. I nearly dropped the frying pan as the headline story was about Priest. “Scandal Rocks the League as Priest Alexander Is Wanted in Miami for Questioning in Connection with the Deaths of Two Women” was the opening headline.

I watched as the sportscaster burst in with “Not since Kobe’s rape charge have we seen such a wildfire brewing in professional basketball. Anonymous tips to the police, mysterious photos allegedly depicting Priest Alexander in a compromising position with a longtime friend and bodyguard surfacing on the Internet…We’re all wondering right now how all of this ties in together. But at the moment, things look awfully dim for the two-time All-Star. Awfully dim. So far Mr. Alexander has not issued a statement. We’re still waiting.”

As I watched more, I remembered Priest’s words: “Your man? Bitch, you’re a fucking whore. A high-class one, but still a whore nonetheless. Any man who’s claiming you has got to be some pussy-whipped idiot.”

I felt no remorse.