Margaret eased the Impala into a spot between two parked cars on Hoover. The snow had stopped as quickly as it started and was already beginning to melt; the sight of it dusting palm trees and flowering shrubs was incongruous. They climbed out of the car and shivered in the unfamiliar cold.

“Let’s leave our purses in the trunk,” Margaret said.

Sheryl Ann must have wondered why but she obeyed. She nervously touched her hair as they made their way to the white Spanish mansion, climbed the steps of the concrete porch, passed a modest bronze sign on the wall that read HUBBARD DIANETICS AND SCIENTOLOGY RESEARCH FOUNDATION, and entered through its red doors. Inside, a young receptionist sat at an immaculate desk in front of a staircase, talking on the phone. Wide-eyed and no doubt an aspiring actress, she acknowledged their arrival with a slight nod of her head and waved toward two orange armchairs.

There was a bookshelf in the waiting area with dozens of books, all of them by L. Ron Hubbard, some science fiction, others religious or instructional: Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health Handbook for Preclears; Electropsychometric Auditing Operator’s Manual; Self-Analysis in Scientology: A Simple Self-Help Volume of Tests and Exercises. Above the bookshelf was an enormous movie poster for The Secret of Treasure Island from the 1930s.

The receptionist continued to speak softly into the phone, ignoring them. Sheryl Ann raised an eyebrow at Margaret and pushed herself out of the overstuffed armchair to examine the spines of the science fiction paperbacks: Death’s Deputy, The Kingslayer, Final Blackout, To the Stars, Buckskin Brigades. Margaret turned her attention to the movie poster, which featured a pirate clenching a knife in his teeth, a ship on fire, a treasure chest overflowing with gold doubloons, and a shirtless captain with his arm around a busty young damsel who looked about fifteen.

“Mr. Hubbard wrote the screenplay for that film,” said the receptionist, hanging up the phone and suddenly addressing her visitors. “Are you here to sign up for our new twenty-five-hour course? I can offer you a discounted rate if you both join.”

Before Margaret could answer, the front door opened, and two men and three women appeared. They all looked to be in their twenties, eager, fresh-faced, attractive, the kind of young people who flocked like birds to Los Angeles every day. The receptionist greeted them warmly. “You can wait in the living room. Your auditors will be with you momentarily,” she said. The group dutifully followed her instructions, none of them uttering a single word.

“I’m sorry, we’re not here to sign up,” Margaret said. “Our brother was a member here, and he died.”

“We’re trying to retrace his last few months,” added Sheryl Ann.

“Who was your brother?”

“Chris Powell,” Margaret said. “He was an actor.”