“Should we just go in?” I ask.

“You can’t just go in,” he says. “Are you on the list?”

“We were told we would be.”

He smiles. “Names?”

“Dean Chapman and Solange Pereira.”

Behind me, Solange peeks her head out. “You’re Bruce Banner’s alter ego, I presume?”

Ah shit. That mouth is going to get us killed.

He grunts, then narrows his eyes at her. “Wrong.”

She disappears just as quickly as she appeared.

Not-Hulk consults his clipboard again and nods. “Guests of Peter Barnum?”

“That’s the one,” I say.

“You’re cleared. Enjoy.”

I take a long look at my surroundings, my gaze immediately landing on the steel table situated in front of the stained glass double doors leading to the rest of the home. The area inside is illuminated in blues and reds, and I can hear the steady thump of music with a driving bass line playing inside. Solange grasps the back of my shirt, as if she’s concerned about getting separated from me.

“Are you okay?” I ask over my shoulder.

“As long as I’m using you as a human shield? Sure.”

Another slab of a man is standing by a second set of doors. As we approach, he reaches behind him and produces a plastic bin. “Evening, folks. You can place your personal belongings—keys, phone, whatever else—in here. We’ll lock them up for you.”

“What the hell?” I whisper to Solange. “Is this airport security? What’s next, a body scan?”

A woman in line behind us laughs. “Psst, it’s no big deal. It’s just what some of these VIPs require. DC, you know?”

No, I don’t know. And I’m not sure I want to spend an evening with any VIPs. I certainly don’t want to give up my phone in some strange place. “Is there another option? One that will allow us to hang on to them?”

He nods without hesitation, as if he’s been asked this question many times before. “What brand?”

“iPhones.”

“I can change the settings to restrict your access to the camera app from the lock screen, then unlock the phones when you both come back out.” He jiggles the plastic bin. “It’s up to you.”

I’d expect this level of gatekeeping in McLean, but a quiet side street in Adams Morgan isn’t a magnet for people who consider themselves VIPs. Now I’m curious to know who’s behind those closed doors.

I turn to look at Solange.

“I’m keeping mine with me,” she says, giving the man a frosty look. “In case I need to make an emergency call.”

“Yeah, let’s change the settings.” I unlock my phone and hand it to him; Solange does the same.

His expression bland, he fiddles with our phones, and in less than a minute, returns them to us. “Done. I’ll unlock them when you leave.”

“You won’t forget the password you used?” I ask.

“I won’t forget the password I used.”