The door to the apartment in Portofino splintered under Marcus Thorne’s shoulder. He stumbled into the small, sunlit room, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Victoria?” Marcus called out, scanning the space.
It was a simple rental, sparse and clean. On the small wooden table, a ceramic cup sat next to a half-eaten biscotti.
Marcus rushed over and touched the cup. It was warm.
He ran to the balcony doors, throwing them open. The street below was a maze of tourists and vendors. She could be anyone. She could be anywhere.
He turned back to the room. On the chair, a scarf was draped–blue silk, the color she wore in her “Luna” days. He lifted it to his face. It smelled of jasmine and sea salt. Her scent.
“She was here,” Marcus screamed, slamming his fist against the wall. “I missed her by minutes!”
He sank to the floor, clutching the scarf, the only “Believer” in a world that had moved on.