I walked over and lifted one side of the heavy rock with T, F, and C painted in sparkle pink nail polish on top, just enough to slide a letter wrapped in plastic underneath before dropping the rock back to the ground.

The letter was written by a girl who never thought she’d lose her best friend but had, a girl who’d had a hard time picking up the pieces afterward—but who was doing a little better every day now.

I pictured my imperfect handwriting inside, the curls and shapes of it forming sentences and secrets I needed to share with my best friend, predictions about a future I’d have without her—but with her, too, since she would always—always—be in my heart.

The letter was meant just for Colette, and I hoped, somehow, some way, she’d read it in private, with not even a horsefly looking over her shoulder.

Turn the page for a sneak peek of the companion novel from Frankie’s perspective

chapter 1

Fact: In some parts of the country, middle schools have built-in tornado shelters.

COLETTE WENT MISSING on the second Friday in April, almost at the end of seventh grade. It was seven and a half years after the tornado in kindergarten, and Colette and I hadn’t been friends anymore for two months.

Before any of us knew she was missing, it was a normal morning. My mom appeared in my doorway at six thirty. Opening my eyes and seeing a person in the doorway made my heart jump.

“I hate it when you do that!” I complained.

“Good morning, Frankie,” Mom said in a soothing voice. “Time to get ready for school.”

I closed my eyes again.

I’d had trouble falling asleep the night before because I’d been playing something over in my head and when I’m thinking too much at bedtime, my brain doesn’t turn off and go to sleep. Plus, I’d forgotten to take the vitamin that helps me sleep. And then I’d woken up twice during the night for no reason, once at two thirty and once at five. It’s hard for me to get back to sleep when that happens. Adding it all together, I’d probably had about four hours of sleep.

I rubbed my eyes with my fists, then scooted deeper under the covers, wishing my mom would go away. But I could still smell the scents she’d brought in with her: nice shampoo and disgusting coffee. I pictured a cartoon drawing of coffee-smell pouncing on a cartoon drawing of nice-shampoo-smell. The nice-shampoo-smell fought back and shoved the coffee-smell off, then . . .

“Are you awake, Frankie?” my mom said.

I am now.