Gregory had made it to his feet now, then Ezra did too, though in trying to regain his balance, his phone fell from his hand and skittered across the rink. Alec, his eyes closed, started to veer off course, waving his hands in the air and belting out the chorus. Frankie saw the wreckage a few seconds before it happened, but by then, even when she’d yelled, it was too late. The Zamboni crushed Ezra’s phone in a mere blink, and then plowed clear through the side wall of the rink, and then Alec was screaming and trying to steer the machine back onto the ice, but soon enough there was an enormous thundering wail beyond the ice, and Frankie was certain the ground shook.

“What the fuck?” Gregory shouted. “Alec? Alec?”

He tried to scramble toward the exit, toward the noise, but kept slipping. Ezra had abandoned all hope of standing, so he just crawled in the same direction, stopping to moan and mourn the shards of his phone in front of him. At some point, Gregory fell right on top of Ezra, and though Frankie didn’t see it, Ezra must have elbowed him square in his previously broken nose. The blood spurted out instantly, as if a tap had been turned on, leaving a round, red crime scene on the ice.

Frankie had always been terrible with blood, and just as Alec stumbled back toward the rink, threw the keys at Ezra, and said, “Uh, guys, I think we better split,” Frankie herself staggered down to the ice, holding her hand in front of her eyes as if this could make anything better at all, but then Gregory was in front of her, his face mangled like a boxer’s. And there was blood everywhere. On his teeth, on his chin, down his neck. And Frankie, because this could not be said enough, really, really was not good with blood, and so the ground tilted on its axis, and Frankie, the toughest gal around, unceremoniously fainted.

Today, twelve or fourteen or sixteen hours later, Frankie sized up Ezra. At least now she knew how she’d been concussed. And she had solved the mystery of the keys. How generous she wanted to be with this information with Ezra was now the question. She didn’t think she owed him anything, but then she didn’t want to be in his debt either.

“I found your phone,” she said flatly. Then pointed toward the ice where only plastic shards and a few buttons were identifiable. “And that right there is Gregory’s blood.” Frankie had discovered her own phone—dead, naturally—under the bleacher seat where she’d dumped out her purse.

Ezra’s gaze followed her gesture. “Gregory’s blood? Is he . . . ok?”

“You elbowed him. Then I fainted.” She clicked her tongue as if she’d taken one on the chin for him. “I must have hit my head.” Her hand moved to the lump. “I really shouldn’t be out here playing Detective Encyclopedia Brown, you know.” Then she cocked her head. “Your face looks better.”