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.

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.