I've never cut class before, much less skipped the entire last half of school, but there's no way I can stay after getting a text like that. If this is a prank, I'm going to find out.

And if it's not ...

Is that even possible? Emma's been gone for months. When the police found her truck abandoned in a cornfield three hours away from home, its shiny blue paint crusted over with mud, they said she suffered life-threatening injuries based on the amount of blood in the backseat. There were other signs of struggle, too. Clumps of dark hair pulled from her head. A torn varsity jacket. One Adidas tennis shoe lying in a puddle of muck near the road. And a missing cell phone and driver's license.

But what if the text is real? What if Emma's alive?

My stomach clenches at the thought. I don't want to get my hopes up only to discover it's not true, it'd be like losing her all over again. The first time was hard enough.

But here's the thing. The text said: Long time no see. That was an inside joke we said to each other every day. Because when you saw one of us, you knew the other was nearby. We were inseparable.

Until she disappeared six months ago.

With white knuckles, I clutch the steering wheel of my CR-V, and follow the winding roads through town. The pavement is slick with rain. I'm taking the curves faster than I should, but I can't slow down, my toe pressing harder against the gas pedal. I need answers, and there's only one place I'm going to find them.

It doesn't take long before I squeal into a driveway, my wheels bumping over the curb, and follow the stamped concrete toward a spectacular log home. But for all its grandeur, there's something unsettling about the Navarro residence. A dullness stretches throughout the interior and leaks from the massive windows, coating the property in a protective layer of film. Look, but don't touch. Isn't that Mrs. Navarro's motto? The perfect house for the perfect family, nestled inside the perfect neighborhood.

I unlock the seat belt and tumble out of my SUV, not even bothering to close the door behind me. As I make my way up the stairs and onto the wraparound porch, my legs are slow and heavy, like they're weighted with wet sand.

Before I can knock, the front door swings open, and Mrs. Navarro's stunned expression brings me to a halt.

I knew she'd be home. Since Emma died—I mean, went missing—she never leaves the house. It's like she's making up for all the time she spent working while Emma was still around.

She stumbles from the entryway into my arms, her thin shoulders trembling so violently she looks like she's having a seizure. I lock my legs and try to hold her up, but she's dead weight in my grasp. We crash to our knees, the damp porch soaking through my jeans.

But she doesn't miss a beat, like the fall never happened. Her face is red, eyes like slits, cheeks streaked with tears. Gasps of air punch in and out of her mouth and I can't make out what she's saying.

"Em, em, em—" She coughs, spits, choking on her own words.

An undeniable waft of alcohol singes the inside of my nose. I try not to gag. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and tries again, but her lips only form consonants and syllables that morph into howls.

I'm crouching now. Afraid to speak, afraid to move, afraid to spook the wild animal. So, I wait. Staring. Quiet as a church mouse. Willing her to calm down.

Finally, her breaths slow. When her red-rimmed eyes come into focus, confusion settles across her face, as if she's just now realizing I'm here.

Say something! I want to shout.

But I don't. I bide my time and play nice. Let her make the first move. And then it happens.

"Mija."

It's a whisper. A barely-there rush of air. But I heard it. I lean closer and wait for more. She doesn't disappoint.

"My Emma's coming home."

The confirmation hits me like a blow to the gut, knocking every wisp of breath from my chest.

At first, the world pauses. Everything is still. Like when I'm on a roller coaster, teetering on top of the main hill, just before the last car plummets over the edge with a momentum that can't be stopped.

Enjoy the ride, folks, and remember to keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times—Woosh!

Mrs. Navarro blurs before me, the porch and log siding, the manicured trees and rolling landscape. Branches blow in the breeze, swirling around my field of vision. I'm caught in the eye of a vortex. Spinning, spinning, and spinning some more. Like the wheels of a race car, a vintage record player. An overzealous ballerina.

Round and round it goes. Where it stops, nobody knows.

That's a song, right? Or a children's rhyme? I have no idea where I heard it, but it's the only thought in my head. So I cling to it and try to anchor myself.

Emma's alive.

Things will go back to normal now, how they were before. We'll graduate from high school, move on to college. Together, as we'd planned. We'll pick up where we left off and put this nightmare behind us.

A vibration stirs my back pocket but I pay it no mind. How can anyone expect me to check my phone at a time like this? Don't they understand what's happening?

Emma's coming home!

Mrs. Navarro squeezes my hands, pulls me back to the front porch. She's laughing now. And crying. A buildup of emotions blending together like whirling hues of paint. Bile burns the back of my throat. I swallow it down, into my stomach, wishing I'd eaten more for lunch. Longing for the extra substance to hold my insides in place.

My pocket vibrates again. And again.

How much time has passed?

Mrs. Navarro continues to ramble, but not to anyone in particular. She's lost in her own world.

I drag the cell from my jeans, rub my eyes, untangle the words on the screen. It's a message from Smith, wondering where I'm at. Why I'm not answering my phone. Two missed calls and five texts. Are you sick?

He's still in school, where I should be.

Wait until he hears the news! He and Emma were close. Closer than close. They'd been together since seventh grade. The future prom queen and king of Menteuse High—that's what everyone called them. He'll want to be here, too. He should be here.

Except. They're not together anymore. Smith is with me.

His name appears again on my screen, another desperate attempt to reach me. I close my eyes, inhale, fight back the wave of nausea.

I can do this. I can answer my phone. He's going to find out sooner or later, and I want it to be from me, not from the rumor mill at school. I hit accept and lift the cell to my ear, the fingernails on my free hand digging into my clammy palm.

"Smith—" My voice is shaking. With happiness. Relief.

And something more.

"There's something I need to tell you."