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.

For one night, I forgot my age, my loneliness, and the empty house waiting for me.

I fell asleep beside him feeling nervous, comforted, and strangely peaceful.

But when I opened my eyes the next morning, the room was cold.

Julian was gone.

At first, I assumed he had gone downstairs for coffee.

Then I noticed the chair beside the door.

My handbag was open.

My wallet lay on the floor.

My phone was missing.

And on the bedside table, beside an empty wineglass, was a small white envelope with my name written across it.

My hands began trembling before I even opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

A photograph of me sleeping.

PART 2

Beneath the photograph was another sheet of paper.

At first, the words blurred in front of me.

Then I forced myself to read them.

Transfer twenty-five thousand dollars before noon.

If you contact the police, the photographs will be sent to your children, your neighbors, and everyone in your address book.

At the bottom was a bank account number.

My hands began to shake.

Twenty-five thousand dollars was almost everything Richard had left in my emergency savings.