She was standing shoulder to shoulder with Ezra, just outside the doorframe, the two security guys blocking their exit down the alley. One of them clutched what she was sure was a Taser. (She’d seen some things, ok?) She dropped her hands, which were nearly numb from the frozen air. Her pulse was racing like a ticking time bomb, which sent the blood even faster to the lump in her head, which now throbbed like a metronome. But she was flying on adrenaline, and she knew herself well enough to know she could ride the wave until she couldn’t. Still, she’d delay the crash for as long as possible.

“This really feels a little unnecessary,” she added. “You know, we’re just two alumni in search of a beer at our old bar.” She felt Ezra twitch beside her.

The younger officer, baby-faced with a scuff of a beard, gave the older one a side glance, then his eyes moved back to Ezra. He tugged his wool hat over his ears.

“Sir, what happened to your face?”

“Allergic reaction,” Frankie said before Ezra could. She’d never known him to be nearly as adept on his feet or, well, frankly, as loose with the truth as she was. “Accidental brush with shellfish for breakfast. We try to be so careful, but sometimes these things happen.”

“Sir?” the officer said to Ezra, like Frankie was the one who had mauled him, like she, tiny lady that she was, had inflicted such damage on him. Frankie was honestly a little flattered that he thought she had it in her, though she knew he hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

“Shellfish,” Ezra said. “We’re over at the Inn, and the chef got a little crazy with the omelet.”

The officers looked warily from Frankie to Ezra then back again, and she took it as her opportunity to move on. She didn’t see how mentioning that he had been pepper-sprayed at Homer would in any way help their cause, and she needed to keep things humming along before Ezra admitted to the truth. Because he would. Give it time. Then she remembered that he had somehow reinvented himself as an expert poker player, which always required a bluff, and wondered if maybe she were getting this wrong.

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Frankie said, because she also knew she could talk her way out of anything. “Wouldn’t you guys rather be home with your families instead of investigating the case of a broken window?” She glanced up and down the street. “Honestly, the back door was open. We couldn’t have known. And really, do we look like people who would smash a window?” She gestured back and forth between them but stopped suddenly when she realized that neither she nor Ezra exactly looked presentable. Her wild hair and smeared makeup, his mashed-up angry red face. She wondered just how long it took for the effects of pepper spray to wear off. She should know this—she sent all her clients on the road with at least one bottle to attach to their key chains, sometimes a second one to stow in their luggage in case anything got too out of hand in a hotel room.