At sixty-two, I spent the night with a man twenty-eight years younger than me. I did it because I was tired of being invisible—and because, for once, I wanted passion. But when I woke up alone in the hotel room the next morning, I discovered something terrifying.

Julian had not taken the photograph.

A second person had been standing near the bathroom door, holding a phone.

He had not worked alone.

The hotel telephone rang.

The sound made me jump.

I answered slowly.

“Evelyn,” Julian said.

His voice was no longer warm.

There was no tenderness in it.

No charm.

Only impatience.

“You read the instructions?”

“Yes.”

“Then follow them.”

“You planned this from the beginning.”

He gave a quiet laugh.

“You were sitting alone in a hotel bar on your birthday. You told a stranger you missed passion. What did you expect?”

His words struck exactly where he intended them to.

But this time, they did not make me smaller.

They made me angry.

“I expected you to be human.”

“I need the money by noon.”