The panic button was the size of a matchbox. Grace held it between her thumb and index finger as she walked, keeping a close eye on her surroundings. If something happened, all she had to do was press down on the button and break the seal, and it would activate the GPS device she had surgically implanted in the webbing between her thumb and index finger. The size of a grain of rice, the GPS device would immediately send a distress signal not only to the police and local FBI but also to a special recovery team employed by the private security company that manufactured what it called its state-of-the-art “Carrier Retrieval System.”

Grace arrived at her car. Once she got inside, she made sure the doors were locked. Then she took out her phone and dialed her mother. The car’s Bluetooth synced with her phone. Grace heard her mother’s voice on the speakers.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“What was it like?”

It was like visiting some erotic petting zoo, Grace wanted to say. Her friend Jamie had had a private table with bottle service in the VIP section of the club. There, topless, acrobatic women made of pure muscle floated high above the dance crowd, dangling effortlessly and gracefully from gymnastic rings. Muscular, good-looking men and beautiful women dressed in black thongs were elaborately tied to crosses and torture racks, unable to see the hands exploring their bodies, because they were blindfolded. Cocktail waitresses wearing dark red lipstick and dark red lingerie with matching stripper heels moved with their drink trays through the dance floor and VIP areas. Some carried whips. Some made the customers get down on their knees and lick their shoes before they would serve them their drinks.

It was all harmless theater, Grace thought, although a great number of people seemed to actually enjoy being uninhibited. She wasn’t one of them. Seeing the naked lust on display made her feel too self-conscious. Uncomfortable. And maybe that was the whole point—confronting those puritan parts of you that were uncomfortable and shy and wanted to look away.

“It was loud,” Grace told her mother. “I can still hear the EDM music thumping in my ears.”

“I was never a fan of nightclubs.”

“I don’t think I am, either.”

“I’m just glad you’re on your way home.” The fear again.

Grace said, “Did something happen?”

“You mean you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“What happened in Thousand Oaks,” her mother replied. “It’s all over the news.”

Which Grace fully admitted she avoided at all costs. Turn on cable or fire up the Internet and go on any social app, at any time of day, and you were treated to a smorgasbord of terror. Her life was already an exercise in fear management. She didn’t need to add fuel to the fire.

“You should really stay informed,” her mother began.

“Just tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Seth Boynton. You went to grade school with him.”