The Frisco community stands frozen in grief as winter’s brief grip loosens, but the pain shows no sign of thawing. Flowers pile high around the scarred trunk of an oak tree on Majestic Gardens Drive near Killian Court—roses, lilies, sunflowers still wrapped in cellophane from hurried supermarket runs. Soccer balls rest at the base, scuffed from weekend games, alongside cheer bows in purple and white, the colors of Wakeland High School. Candles flicker in glass jars, their flames dancing against the fading daylight on January 31, 2026. Handwritten notes cling to the bark: “Forever in our hearts,” “Best friends reunited,” “Lizzie & Gracie—together forever.”
Riya Verma, a classmate who shared classes and hallways with them, posted a simple, shattering caption that captured what thousands feel: “Now they’re in heaven together… two inseparable 16-year-old besties, Elizabeth and Gracie, finally reunited after that heartbreaking sled ride gone wrong.” The words spread rapidly across social media, accompanied by old photos—grainy snapshots from school events, beach trips, birthday parties—moments that now feel achingly precious, achingly short. Friends scroll through memories, laughing through tears at inside jokes, silly faces, promises scribbled in yearbooks. Every image is a reminder: they were here, vibrant and full of future, until one Sunday afternoon stole it all.
The accident happened on January 25, during a rare winter storm that dumped several inches of heavy snow across North Texas—a phenomenon so unusual it felt like a gift to teenagers who rarely see white winters. Frisco streets, normally dry and sun-baked, turned slick and playful. In the quiet Majestic Gardens neighborhood, a group of friends seized the novelty. A Jeep Wrangler, driven by another 16-year-old boy, towed a simple sled with Elizabeth “Lizzie” Angle and Grace “Gracie” Brito riding tandem. They were laughing, shouting, holding on tight as the vehicle accelerated down the snowy road. Then came the turn.
Witnesses described the sled whipping sideways, striking the curb with bone-jarring force, then launching forward. The girls slammed into the tree. First responders arrived to a scene etched forever in their minds: two 16-year-old girls still clinging to each other in the snow, bodies entwined in a desperate, instinctive embrace that refused to break even in death’s arrival. “They were holding on to each other,” the words from police and paramedics rippled through reports, interviews, social posts—six words that shattered an entire community.
Lizzie died at the hospital shortly after arrival, her injuries too severe to overcome. Gracie fought longer, placed on life support while family and friends prayed in sterile waiting rooms. For three days, hope flickered. Then, on January 28, Gracie’s family honored her final, selfless wish. She had registered as an organ donor with excitement just months earlier, right after getting her driver’s license. “She wanted to help anyone in need. That was Grace,” her mother Tracy Brito said. Organs were donated—heart, lungs, kidneys, liver—turning tragedy into multiple second chances for strangers. In death, the girl who always made others smile gave the ultimate gift.
Elizabeth “Lizzie” Angle was a rising star on the Wakeland soccer team—fast, determined, the player who lifted teammates when spirits lagged. Off the field, she was gentle, kind-spirited, the friend who noticed when someone withdrew and drew them back in with quiet warmth. Her parents, Megan and Brian Angle, spoke publicly of her light: a girl who spread kindness effortlessly, whose absence leaves a void no one can fill.
Gracie Brito matched that energy on the cheer squad—bright smile, boundless compassion, the one who sensed a classmate’s bad day and fixed it with a hug or a note. Friends called her a “kind and generous soul,” full of warmth and love. The two had been inseparable since elementary school: shared lockers, sleepovers, secrets, dreams of college and beyond. They were the kind of best friends who finish sentences, laugh at the same things, and promise forever without needing words.
The memorial at the crash site grows daily. Soccer balls multiply—gifts from teammates who can’t bear the empty field. Cheer bows dangle from branches like colorful prayers. Flowers wilt in the warming air but are replaced hourly. Strangers leave notes, parents stand silently, teenagers hug and cry. At Wakeland High, hallways feel hollow. Counselors are on hand around the clock. Teachers pause mid-lesson, voices cracking. The principal’s statements speak of honoring the girls’ legacies, of acknowledging their impact in assemblies and memorials once classes fully resume.
A prayer vigil was held Thursday evening at St. Philip’s Episcopal Church—hundreds gathered under dim lights, candles in hand, voices rising in song and prayer. Stories flowed: Lizzie’s game-winning goal, Gracie’s cheer routine that rallied the crowd, the time they dressed identically for spirit week and fooled everyone. Laughter mingled with sobs, proof that joy and sorrow can coexist.
GoFundMe pages for both families overflowed quickly—funds for funerals, scholarships, support for siblings left behind. Lizzie’s family plans the Elizabeth Angle Foundation, channeling grief into youth sports, kindness programs, safety awareness. Gracie’s organ donation legacy already saves lives, a living testament to her selflessness.
The Frisco Police investigation continues with the Denton County DA’s office. Questions linger: speed, road conditions, the decision to tow on public streets. No charges announced yet, but the case highlights dangers of vehicle-towed sledding—especially in snow-inexperienced Texas. Hospitals reported dozens of storm-related sledding injuries; Frisco’s stands out for its heartbreak.
The driver, another 16-year-old, carries invisible scars—grief for friends lost, guilt that may never fade, potential legal weight. The community calls for compassion toward him too, recognizing youth in crisis.
As snow melts and streets dry, Frisco returns to routine, but nothing feels normal. Parents watch children closer, conversations about risk replace casual goodbyes. Every soccer game, every cheer practice carries echoes of absence.
Yet in the tributes, the candles, the piled flowers, the shared photos, something endures. Lizzie and Gracie are gone from earth, but their bond—fierce, loyal, unbreakable—lives on. They held on to each other in the final seconds. Now, in heaven as Riya Verma’s words so poignantly put it, they’re together again, reunited after a sled ride gone wrong.
The tree stands silent witness, scarred but standing. Flowers will fade, candles burn out, but the memories won’t. Two best friends, two young lives cut short, remind everyone: cherish the moments, hold tight to those you love, because forever can end in an instant.
In Frisco, Texas, on January 31, 2026, a community weeps, remembers, and slowly begins to heal—holding on, just as Lizzie and Gracie did.
