I sped along the access road, noting the number of Beamers, Mercedes and glossy Caddies parked near the entrance. The Infiniti fit in. I used my most businesslike stride to arrive at the front door. A fresh-faced teenage boy was stationed at the door for security. His sandy hair had natural highlights from the sun, and he stood well over six feet with a build that indicated time in the gym. He was pretty enough for any movie screen. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he was discovered here one of these days. If I read his tag correctly, his name was Braydon. I approached him for what I assumed was an entirely normal and appropriate member’s ID check. I resisted straightening my tightly curled blond wig—which would only draw attention to it—and donned the look I remember from my third grade teacher, Miss Dagenham. It could stop your blood cold and could not be withstood. He stepped back a bit. I held up my hand to stop any requests for ID.
