Today, Ezra glanced upward. “This seems like a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

The guard floated his eyes toward the bushel. “I didn’t hear any complaints from you people last night.”

Ezra opened his mouth to ask more, but then panic set in: he knew himself well enough to know that he wasn’t prepared enough, steely enough to hear whatever came next. Instead, he quickened his step and scurried out into the winter storm.

NINETEEN

Frankie

Frankie could not believe that after all the land mines she’d averted in the past few hours, this tiny girl swaddled in puffy layers and wearing bright green earmuffs was going to be the narc who ruined everything. The girl cradled her phone in a mittened hand and held it between them like it was a grenade.

“If you’re gonna call the cops, call the cops,” Frankie said. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

The girl hesitated, and Frankie was certain that she’d called her bluff. Police meant statements and back-and-forths and this and that, and honestly, it would kill this girl’s whole afternoon, possibly her New Year’s Eve plans.

But then the girl tugged off her other mitten with her teeth, flipped the phone open, and punched the buttons.

“Wait!” Frankie bleated. “Wait!”

Frankie had never been the type to beg. She couldn’t think of a time she’d had to beg! Sometimes, yes, well, she wore different hats with different clients, and of course there were lech erous producers and managers, but that was just how it all went as one of the few female powerhouses in the industry. So she danced the dance for her clients because that was part of the gig: she protected them from the sleazebags who wanted to ply them with coke and then screw; she shielded them from dickheads who promised the moon but paid them a penny on the dollar. Women were constantly undervalued and underestimated in her business, so she had to work with all of the cards in her deck. This made her think of Ezra, and for a moment, she was distracted by just how much she could not wrap her head around how significantly he had changed.

The girl snapped her out of it.

“Why should I not? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call the cops.”

And then Frankie remembered to use all the cards in her deck. She couldn’t outrun a bike; she could barely run at all with the blood pooling in the lump on her head. But she remembered the posters over the bed.

“Night Vixen,” she said.

The girl’s brow furrowed. “Night Vixen? I shouldn’t call the cops because of Night Vixen?”

“I’m their manager. I discovered them. I saw the poster in your room.”

The girl wrinkled her nose like she couldn’t decide if Frankie were lying or if it even mattered. “Please.”

“It’s true. I swear,” Frankie said. “Do you want a signed CD? Tickets to their next tour?”

“Do I look like someone who can be bought off with a bribe?” But the hand holding the phone dropped into her parka pocket, and she took a beat, considering. “Oh, actually, I didn’t just find condoms. I found this.”