A recent threatening communication directed at the governor had increased the urgency of the assessment. It contained no reliable evidence of a specific attack, but it referenced a residence used for official retreats, and the protective team had decided that every location on the governor's schedule should be reviewed. Lydia had requested access to Willow Creek personally. She did not believe leadership should be practiced only through meetings, and she had never trusted a report that did not tell her what the person on the ground actually saw.
At eight that morning, she met with James Patterson, the security operations director, in a conference room lined with maps and status screens. Patterson was methodical, a man who kept spare pens in three different pockets and still managed to lose one every meeting. He placed a sealed packet in front of her containing the facility authorization, contact list, access keys, and instructions for reporting anomalies. He asked whether she wanted a uniformed escort.
"Not for the first walk-through," Lydia said. "I want to see how the ordinary access process works before we make the place look like a security exercise."
Patterson considered the answer. "The local department has been notified that an authorized state inspection may occur. They haven't been given your entire itinerary. Your check-in is at three."
"And if I miss it?"
"We start locating you. No assumptions."
She smiled at that. "Good. That's the part I wanted to hear."
Before she left, Agent Marcus Sullivan, who supervised the governor's close protection team, stepped into the room carrying a second copy of the access orders. Sullivan was a broad-shouldered former federal agent with a habit of looking through glass doors before he opened them. He had worked with Lydia on a complex interstate visit years earlier, and he trusted her judgment enough to argue with her when he believed she was overlooking something. Their professional friendship depended on both of them accepting that disagreement was not disloyalty.
"You know Willow Creek has a neighborhood committee that treats the street like a private kingdom," he said. "They've complained about government vehicles before."
"Then the ownership records ought to be available when questions come," Lydia replied.
"You would think."
She packed the documents into her portfolio, confirmed her assigned phone was charged, and left the building shortly after nine. The city was waking around her, delivery trucks edging toward loading docks and commuters filling the sidewalks. She stopped for a sandwich on the way, then reviewed the perimeter notes in her car before entering Elmwood. The red blazer she wore was not chosen for symbolism. It was the jacket she had worn to an earlier briefing and had kept on because she expected to return to the capital that evening.