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.

“My bank blocked the payment. They said the amount was too large. I withdrew cash.”

There was a pause.

“Where are you?”

“At the hotel.”

He told me to walk to an underground parking garage two streets away and place the cash inside the trunk of a gray car.

Instead of money, the police filled a bank envelope with paper and a tracking device.

A microphone was hidden beneath the collar of my coat.

When I entered the garage, my knees almost gave way.

Marcus stood beside the gray car.

The charming man from the night before was gone.

His face was cold.

Hard.

Ordinary.

“Put the envelope in the trunk,” he ordered.

“Give me my phone first.”

“You are not in a position to negotiate.”

I held the envelope against my chest.