Trez didn’t look convinced as he escorted her down to the ladies’ locker room and left her at the door. “Remember, I’m available twenty-four/seven, and you can talk to me anytime.”

“I know. And thank you.”

He put his hand to his heart and gave her a little bow. “My pleasure. You take care of yourself.”

The locker room was walled with long metal compartments and broken up by benches that were screwed down into the floor. Against the far wall, the lighted showgirl mirror had a six-foot-long counter that was littered with makeup, and there were hairpieces and skimpy clothes and stilettos everywhere. The air smelled like girl sweat and shampoo.

As usual, she had the place to herself. She was always the first to come in and the first to leave, and now that she was in work mode, there were no hesitations, no hiccups in the routine.

Coat went into her locker. Street shoes were kicked off. Scrunchie was pulled free of her ponytail. Duffel bag was yanked open.

Her blue jeans and her white turtleneck and her navy blue fleece were traded for a set of clothes she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing on Halloween: microscopic Lycra skirt, halter top that came down to the bottom of her ribs, thigh-highs with lace tops, and pimpish pumps that pinched her toes.

Everything was black. Black was the Iron Mask’s signature color, and it had been the other club’s as well.

She never wore black when she was away from work. About a month into this nightmare, she’d thrown away every thread of clothing she had with any black in it—to the point where she’d had to go out and buy something to wear to the last funeral she’d gone to.

Over at the lighted mirror, she hit her five tons of brunette hair with some spray and then weeded through the palettes of eye shadows and blushers, picking out dark, sparkly colors that were about as girl-next-door as a Penthouse centerfold. Moving quickly, she went Ozzy Osbourne on the eyeliner and glued on some fake eyelashes.

The last thing she did was go to her bag and take out a tube of lipstick. She never shared lipsticks with the other girls. Everyone was properly screened each month, but she wasn’t taking chances: She could control what she did and how scrupulous she was when it came to safety. The other girls might have different standards.

The red gloss tasted like plastic strawberry, but the lipstick was critical. No kissing. Ever. And most of the men knew that, but with a coating of the grease, she cut short any debate: None of them wanted their wives or girlfriends to know what they were doing on “guys’ night out.”