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.

Marcus and his accomplice had built their entire scheme around one thing.

Shame.

Detective Morgan asked whether I would help them catch him.

My first instinct was fear.

Then I remembered his voice.

You believed everything else.

I wanted him to believe one more thing.

I wanted him to believe I was still afraid.

At eleven forty-five, I called the number he had left.

“I have the money,” I said.

“Transfer it.”

“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.