“Was it about her?” Ezra pointed to Frankie.

“No, at least, I don’t think so?” Joni shook her head slowly. “I kind of lose myself when I’m playing a hand,” she said finally. “I could tell you what cards I was holding, I could even probably tell you what cards you were holding. But the rest of it . . .” She shrugged.

“Well, he can count cards,” Frankie piped up. “So don’t feel too badly.” At this, Ezra audibly blew out his breath, then took another hundred from his wallet, slid it across the table.

To Frankie he snapped: “Just so you know, the card counting is for blackjack, not poker. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Then to Joni, softer, he said: “But still, that’s probably only reasonable.”

“Oh!” Joni brightened. “Actually, you did say something like that: ‘I don’t think I’m being unreasonable!’ ” Joni faltered, trying to bring it back. “I think . . . wait, maybe someone couldn’t get here? Her flight was canceled?” She considered this, her eyes narrow, her lips pressed into a line. “Yes! Yes, that was it. She couldn’t get here because of the weather, and you were, well, look, you were pretty frazzled. More like . . . irate. You were irate. And probably . . . drunk? That’s why I couldn’t believe you kept winning.”

“The card counting,” Frankie said again dryly. Ezra slapped a hand down on the table and glared at her. “I guess that would explain why she’s not at the hotel,” Frankie continued, as if this were helpful.

“Shit!” Ezra ignored her. He sank his face into his hands. “Shit! I had a plan!” He dropped his hands to his lap, closed his eyes, and inhaled. “I can fix this,” he said. “I’ll just fix this.”

Frankie, who really did know better than to keep stirring the pot, couldn’t help herself. “How? How do you fix this?” Did Ezra have access to a jet? To the weather? How did one fix this? Frankie was honestly intrigued.

“Not now, Frankie,” Ezra buzzed, and there it was again: Frankie found herself attracted to Ezra’s newfound backbone. Frankie hadn’t known that he, metaphorically, had it in him. He slouched over, resting his forehead on the table, and her impulse evaporated.

“Oh!” Joni brightened again. “And there was a scavenger hunt.”

“A scavenger hunt?” Frankie echoed back, her decibel too high, too loud, as Ezra groaned again, dropping his face into his hands.

“I think, I mean, again, please don’t take this as gospel, but I think you guys were a team?”

“That can’t be right,” Frankie said, even though she’d thought of such a thing just a few minutes prior. How? Why? Under what circumstances would Frankie Harriman ever agree to participate in a game that was most likely to be found at a ten-year-old’s birthday party? Especially . . . with Ezra Jones?

Before Frankie could give the notion any breathing room, however, Ezra, being so quintessentially Ezra, leaned over and flopped to the floor.