But they were private.
In one of them was Julian guiding me through the lobby with his hand resting on the lower back.
In another, I was sitting next to him in bed, smiling for something he had told me.
The last photograph showed me sleeping under the blanket.
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I didn't need anything scandalous.
I just needed to create a story.
A lonely widow of sixty-two years.
A twenty-eight-year-old man.
A hotel room.
People would imagine the rest.
I imagined my daughter's silence.
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The shamed expression of my son.
To my neighbors whispering behind the curtains.
For a terrible moment, I stretched my hand to the hotel phone to call my bank.
Then I stopped.
Why did I have to be ashamed?
I hadn't betrayed anyone.
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I hadn't hurt anyone.
I wanted to feel warmth.
I wanted passion.
I had wanted to feel desired after eight years of being treated as if that part of my life had ended my husband’s funeral.
The person who had to be ashamed was Julian.
Not me.
I took the picture again.
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That's when I noticed something strange.
In the mirror behind the bed was a faint reflection.
Julian hadn't taken the picture.
A second person had been standing near the bathroom door, holding a phone.
He hadn't worked alone.
The hotel phone started ringing.
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The noise made me startle.
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I responded slowly.
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“Evelyn,” Julian said.
His voice was no longer warm.
There was no tenderness in it.
No charm.
Just impatience.
Did you read the instructions?
"Yes.
“Then follow them.
You planned all this from the beginning.
He let out a dull laugh.
“You were sitting alone in a hotel bar on your birthday. You told a stranger that you missed the passion. What were you hoping for?
His words struck exactly where he wanted.
But this time they couldn't make me feel small.
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They made me angry.
I expected you to be a human being.
I need the money before noon.
And after he pays?
The photographs will disappear.
Do you expect me to believe that?
You believed everything else.
The call was cut.
I sat looking at the earpiece.
He was right about one thing.
