Henry—thousands of miles away in France—had the full scoop by the time his FaceTime request woke me up in the morning. The buzzing of my phone woke me up, and I tapped its screen to speak with him before realizing that my hair was completely askew, and I had weird crease marks on my face from my pillowcase.

“Hey,” I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “You heard about the tornados?”

He wasn’t wearing his preppy pastel tennis outfit for work. “Both of Mischa’s parents,” he said without emotion. “Dead. Totally random—they were on opposite sides of town when the storm hit. And Amanda’s on life support. Rumor has it she won’t live until the end of the day. If she dies, then that’s only three casualties in a town with a population of almost five thousand people.”

I fell back on my pillow, feeling like I’d been punched in the solar plexus. “How did you find out? Did your parents hear that?” If there was any possible chance that this was an unconfirmed rumor, I needed to know.

“No,” Henry said glumly. “Chris Stephens is a volunteer firefighter in town now.”

The name was familiar, although I couldn’t remember what Chris looked like. He’d graduated the year I was a freshman, and he’d been on the tennis team with Henry—that much, I remembered. It was easy to retain at least a vague memory of kids in other classes when your high school only had about four hundred students, total.

Henry continued, “He texted me last night and said it was surreal having to put Amanda’s body on a stretcher. He was her orientation buddy on her first day of high school. He said he cried all the way to the hospital to drop her off. Even if she survives, he said her spinal injury is pretty severe. She’ll never walk again.”

A chill ran through me despite the fact that it was hot in my room. I watched the ceiling fan overhead turn in lazy circles. The time had arrived when I had no choice but to tell Henry the truth about what had been happening since January. He was in danger; we all were, and so were our families. “She knew this was going to happen. Mischa. Ever since we went to Michigan and played the game with Violet again, she’s been getting weird signals. We think the curse was passed to her when we took it off Violet because it skipped her when it was her turn. Mischa was supposed to die before the end of November. And then Stephani died before the end of December. Maybe Violet killed someone else in November, but I think she was planning on catching up on however many souls she was behind with her big ski trip stunt in January.”

Henry shook his head, and when he spoke, he sounded angry. “Why didn’t you tell me, McKenna? I’m out here prancing around on a tennis court like—like—an idiot—and all these months, Mischa’s been in danger?”