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.

I had not betrayed anyone.

I had not hurt anyone.

I had wanted warmth.

I had wanted passion.

I had wanted to feel desired after eight years of being treated as though that part of my life had ended with my husband’s funeral.

The person who should have been ashamed was Julian.

Not me.

I picked up the photograph again.

That was when I noticed something strange.

In the mirror behind the bed, there was a faint reflection.

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.