Break the Ice

Ellie's POV

Death made my parents famous.

The thought circles through my mind as the priest's voice drones on, his words rising toward a sky too blue for a funeral. Scripture floats past me in fragments—dust to dust, ashes to ashes—but I stopped listening somewhere around the third verse.

Two closed caskets sit before me, polished mahogany gleaming under the late May sun. Oklahoma refuses to give me the rain this moment deserves. Instead, I get birdsong, fresh-cut grass, a perfect afternoon that belongs to the European summer trip my parents promised and will never deliver.

"We'll do Paris first," Mom had said, her voice crackling through the phone while I sat alone in our apartment, eating cereal for dinner. "The Eiffel Tower at night, Ellie. You'll love it."

"And Rome," Dad added from somewhere in the background, probably lacing up his skates. "The Colosseum. Gelato every day. We'll have two whole weeks completely to ourselves."

"After your exams," Mom promised. "Once we finish this final ice show circuit. We're going to make up for all the missed birthdays, sweetheart. All of them."

I'd believed her. That was the pathetic part—after eighteen years of broken promises and empty apartments, I still believed her.

My mind keeps slipping backward, rewinding to the footage I can't stop watching. The scoreboard collapsing. The screaming. My parents disappearing under steel and concrete in seconds.

The video went viral within hours. I've seen them die a hundred times now—in loops, in slow motion, in strangers' reaction videos with their horrified faces superimposed in the corner of the screen.

The comments were the worst. I shouldn't have read them, but my fingers kept scrolling.

"OMG I literally screamed when I saw this. So sad."

"Does anyone have the uncensored version? Asking for a friend lol."

"They were never that good anyway. Barely made it past regionals most years."

"The daughter is lowkey pretty. Anyone know her socials?"

I'd thrown my phone across the room after that last one. It didn't break. Nothing breaks when you need it to.

Someone touches my arm—a stranger with wet eyes and trembling lips, murmuring condolences that blur into meaningless sounds. I nod because that's what orphans do at funerals.

I loved my parents. But they were ghosts who passed through my life between skating tours.

I learned to cook at nine. I stopped expecting them at school events by twelve. I raised myself alone while they chased a dream that never quite materialized.

Now they're gone for real, and I'm furious at myself for not crying. For feeling relief that I'll never wait for them again.

The coffins lower into the ground. The small crowd disperses, their black clothing dots shrinking across the cemetery lawn. I stay rooted beside the graves, unable to move.

Footsteps approach from behind. I turn to find Christopher Buckner—my parents' manager, the only familiar face here.

He looks like he's aged ten years in the past week, deep lines carved around his mouth, his usually meticulous suit hanging loose on his frame.

"Ellie." He takes my hands in his, squeezing gently. "I'm so sorry. Your parents were extraordinary people. The skating world has lost two of its most dedicated artists."

"Thank you for coming, Christopher." My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. "I know how busy you are."

"I wouldn't be anywhere else." He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. "There's someone here who came a long way to meet you. He asked me to introduce you, but I think it's better if he explains himself."

"Who?" Unease prickles along my spine.

"Family," Christopher says simply. He squeezes my hands once more, excuses himself, and walks away before I can ask anything else.

Family. My parents never mentioned any relatives.

My eyes lift—and lock with a stranger's gaze across the cemetery.

He stands apart from the remaining mourners. Tall—well over six feet—with dark hair silvering at the temples and a face that looks carved from granite.

His charcoal suit fits him, obviously custom-tailored, obviously expensive. But it's his eyes that hold me captive: steel-gray and sharp as broken glass.

I can't look away. He walks toward me, each step unhurried. When he stops, he's close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

"Ellie." His voice is deep, resonant. "I'm Zack McKinney. Your father's stepbrother."

The words don't make sense. I open my mouth, close it, try again. "My father never mentioned any family."

"He wouldn't have." Zack's expression doesn't change. "We never got along. Our parents married when we were teenagers, and your father left as soon as he turned eighteen. We haven't spoken in over twenty years."

"Then why are you here?"

"I saw the news." He says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "So I came."

I wait for more—an explanation, a motivation, some hint of what he wants from me.

"Your parents had a lawyer," he continues.

Then he reaches into his jacket and produces a crisp white business card, holding it out to me. I take it without thinking—Harrison & Associates, Estate Law.

"I didn't know they had a lawyer," I hear myself say.

"His name is Gerald Harrison. He contacted me three days ago. Apparently, your father left instructions in the event of—" He pauses, choosing his words. "—an unforeseen circumstance."

Did you know you were going to die, Dad? Did you feel it coming, the way some people claim to feel storms in their bones?

"I have a home in California," Zack continues. "I live with two sons, roughly your age. It's a nice place to stay for the summer. But you're an adult now, and I'm sure you have a life here in Oklahoma." He pauses, his gray eyes holding mine. "I won't insist."

I don't have a life here. I have an apartment I'll lose by month's end and a part-time job at a diner that barely covers groceries. But I don't trust kindness without conditions.

"I appreciate it, but I don't think—"

The cemetery gates burst open with a metallic screech. Journalists swarm through, a flood of cameras and microphones and shouted questions that assault me from every direction.

"Ellie! How does it feel to lose both parents at once?"