The next and final step was the body scanner that treated you to a visual strip search. The scanner could detect metal as well as drugs, plastic explosives, even a polymer gun; but what it was really looking for were prickers, the devices used by stickmen to identify carriers.

After Grace traded in her bracelet for her purse, she hung in the lobby while the valet went to collect her car—a good thing, too, since the area outside the club was packed with paparazzi. Flashes were going off like machine-gun fire, the cameras pointed at a woman standing by her limo. Traffic outside was backed up, horns honking in every direction. Grace took out her phone and called her mother.

“Hey. I’m about to leave.”

“Okay.” Her mother’s relief was palpable.

Grace said, “I’m waiting for my car, but it might be a while.”

“What’s going on?”

“She Who Shall Not Be Named is standing outside the club, posing for pictures.”

That was what Grace, her mother, and her friends called this sex tape porn star turned reality TV star turned feminist entrepreneur. She Who Shall Not Be Named had become world-famous for a viral sex video of her getting tag-teamed in high school by two football studs at a hotel.

Grace said, “She’s out there with her new boyfriend.”

“Some rapper, right?”

“Da-Nutz.”

The two were idiots, no question, barely a brain between them, but what really pissed Grace off about the Dipshit Twins were the ridiculous “No Blood” buttons they wore, the two of them pretending to be a part of the whole #noblood movement—which was so hypocritical, because one look at She Who Shall Not Be Named, and you could tell she was on the blood, her skin flawless, tight, and youthful looking even though she was way past forty.

Grace said, “I just got a text. My car is ready.”

“Remember, I gave you money for the—”

“The premium service, yes. It’s all set.”

“Call me when you get to the car, okay?”

Grace was very close with her mother and, like most children, was able to read the subtle shift of her parents’ moods, even over the phone. Her mother sounded tired, which wasn’t that much of a surprise since she was an early bird. Tonight, Grace heard traces of fear in her mother’s tone—fear and, Grace thought, grief.

“Okay?” her mother asked again.

“Yes. I’ve got to go. Security is here.”

Her escort—humongous, with a shaved head and a pissed-off expression—looked like a soldier dressed by Ralph Lauren: nice black suit mixed with a body camera, a bulletproof vest, and a belt that held a handgun, Taser, cans of Mace, and what were called “flash-bang” grenades. Grace felt safe—which was the entire point. His job was to walk her to her car, make sure she was safe.

As Grace exited the club behind her escort, she reached into her purse for the newest piece of technology designed to help protect carriers in the event of an abduction.