And everyone is watching.

My head pounds like the beater against Patrick’s bass drum.

All the things you love. One by one, says the music executive with the slate gray eyes. Oh, Anders. . . . You are going to be so, so sorry.

I heard someone found Frankie’s cell phone last night, near the Crow’s Nest. Near the spot where everyone saw us fight. Still no sign of her car, though. No sign of Frankie herself. It doesn’t seem possible that Frankie Lynde could go from the center of everything to someplace where no one can find her at all.

Mr. Norales is at the board, talking about mass units and velocity units, and I can’t follow anything. I stare down at my open notebook.

I haven’t written a song in days. Not unless you count that song I played to the live audience on Saturday, the last time I played with Jezz and Patrick. Maybe the last time we’ll ever play.

Now I can barely remember the words to that song. Only the chorus sticks around. Don’t forgive me, don’t forget.

Freaking perfect.

When the bell rings, I stumble into the hall. In the last couple of hours, somebody has posted flyers everywhere. There’s Frankie’s name in big print above her family’s phone number and the police tip line, a picture of her gleaming blue car, and three photos of her smiling into the camera, like anyone who goes to this school doesn’t already know her on sight. Somehow I make it up the stairs, to the right classroom, to the right desk. I sit through American Literature. Then I find my locker. It takes me three tries to get the combination right.

Lunchtime. I almost don’t go to the cafeteria. I could find some corner or classroom to hide in, but before I can settle on one, autopilot steers me through the swinging cafeteria doors.

Across the huge room, I see Jezz and Patrick and Lee and Ellie and Mac already clustered around our usual table. There’s a huge bag of tortilla chips open in the center of the table and a metallic rainbow of cans from the vending machines.

From a distance, Patrick glances up at me. He doesn’t even frown. His face stays blank, like he’s looking at a total stranger, someone he’s never spoken to and probably never will. He glances away again. The rest of them don’t even look up.

“What did you do with her, Thorson?”

The voice comes from behind me.

I turn around.

“What did you do? Did you eat her?”

The voice is nasty and loud enough to cut through the cafeteria buzz. It’s coming from a table of guys in camo and hunting gear. Chase Pokolski, Kev Burr, Dustin Barrino. And Austen Marks. It was his voice. His wide, pasty face is grinning at me.

He’s talking about Frankie. At first I think he means something dirty. I learned half of the rude terms I know from being stuck on the same school bus route as Austen and Chase. But he keeps on grinning at me, with that mean, eager face, and then I realize he means something else.