It was just past six in the evening, the last traces of February sunlight bleeding orange across the snowbanks. The rink itself stood squat and unassuming—a concrete box with a faded sign reading "McQueen's Ice Arena" in chipped blue letters.

Your father's truck was already there, parked in his usual spot. Next to it, a black SUV with Rhode Island plates. And a sleek silver Audi you didn't recognize.