Chapter One
Breaking and entering takes on a brand-new meaning when the goal isn’t to commit a felony, but to retrieve what’s rightfully yours. Case in point: an eight-inch-long brass tortoise.
My back presses against the muted gray brick that makes up the interior of the Segner House locker room. It smells lethal—a combination of damp socks and chemically engineered body spray called Dark Anarchy or something equally unhinged. My rattling heartbeat slows as my eyes adjust to the bright fluorescents overhead, which—let’s be honest—are the only things criminal about this entire excursion.
There’s no one here, I think. Which,
duh, Delaney. No need to duck and cover on enemy territory when said enemies should be asleep. It’s nearing midnight, but you never know. Every senior takes the game seriously. That means I cannot be seen. By anyone. I’m not allowed here in the first place.
I should know better. I
do know better.
The way to break into the guys’ quarters has been an open secret for years. The rusty knob on the back door unlocks with precise jiggling and a little patience. It took me under three minutes to get in.
I scan my surroundings. It would be so convenient if they’d hidden the trophy somewhere in here, but my heart sinks with each place I look. There’s nothing on top of the lockers or on the benches beside them. I check the empty mop bucket. The recycling bin. Under discarded towels. Behind the shower curtains that reveal a nightmare-inducing level of uncleanliness—but alas. No tortoise.
“Where
are you?” I whisper to myself.
Of course it’s not here. That would be too easy.
No one expected I’d volunteer for this after-hours trophy heist, but with a record as clean as mine, I’m the obvious choice. Ivernia School won’t expel one of their brightest. Not when they’ve paraded me in front of new student orientations, bragging about my exemplary GPA and college goals.
Also? I refuse to get caught.
Segner House has nearly the same layout as Hyde House, so I don’t have any difficulty navigating to the common room. All the lights are off. I pause in the dark corridor until my eyes have a chance to adjust. I avoid using the flashlight on my phone because
please—this isn’t amateur hour.
The year-long Capture the Flag quest has been an Ivernia tradition for decades. The rules are simple: Segner House versus Hyde House. Seniors only. No hiding the brass tortoise anywhere that can be locked, like bedrooms, and
no cheating under any circumstances. No matter how close you are to someone on the opposing team, even if they’re your best friend in the world, you can’t help them. If you do, you’re banned and shamed as a traitor to the sworn loyalty of your house. Nothing personal.
Sabine narrowed our search to three different locations: the kitchenette, the common room, and the locker room. The locker rooms can be used as a hiding place only once per team in order to raise the stakes. The other locations are accessible to everyone during the day, making them fair game. Tonight my goal is to check each place until I find the prized possession. I
have to bring back a victory.
Living up to expectations has been ingrained in me for as long as I can remember. Rule-breaking, however, has not. But I don’t want to disappoint Hyde. This is my chance to seal my commitment to the team. And as trivial as it may sound, I want to impress the leads. Sabine and Inessa radiate this casual air of sophistication without even trying, all candid poise and elegant finesse. Some people are blessed with a magnetic personality, and others (like me) struggle to absorb an iota of what they’re giving.
So I’m going to prove I belong and follow through.
Using the pale moonlight that leaks in from the old Victorian window, I begin my second search of the night. I feel around under dirty couch cushions and pray I’m not accidentally discovering a new bacterium. I squint underneath a sunken armchair and scan the hollow spaces between bookshelves. And when I reach inside tissue boxes and decorative vases, I come up empty.
Damn it. It’s in the kitchenette.
I grab the heaviest book I can find before backtracking to the unmonitored entrance that leads to the dormitory wing. I’m silent as I creep past closed bedroom doors. The hallway here is narrow, and I’m terrified to even
breathe too loudly out of fear I’ll wake someone.
The cracks underneath the doors reveal that almost everyone is asleep, give or take a few illuminated rooms. I yank the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, as though this terrible disguise can deter any suspicion, and tiptoe toward the end of the hall.
My heart continues to jackhammer against my rib cage as I reach the kitchenette. I give the closed door a hard, fast tug, because I know the hinges in this building creak louder than a successful rocket launch. My working theory is that the faculty has never WD‑40’d the problem because it acts as an organic after-hours alarm. Not that this keeps students from sneaking into each other’s rooms on occasion.
A feeble whine releases from the rusty hinges. I pause, listening for footsteps. When I’m sure I’m in the clear, I prop open the door with the book so it can’t groan closed, and then I step inside.
The game is worth the risk. Team bonding and strategic planning are part of the reason I decided to join, but the bigger incentive is a triumphant comeback. Because for the last five years, Segner House has won.
Not this year.
I refuse to see
him hoisting the trophy in the air at graduation.
My eyes have already adjusted to the darkness, so I don’t tamper with the kitchenette’s light. My gaze sweeps across the counters and the top of the fridge. I gently pry open cabinet doors. Adrenaline spikes through my system as I check the utensil drawers and the storage area underneath the sink. I look inside the microwave. I even peek inside the dishwasher.
And then—there it is. Sitting inside the coffeepot.
My synapses set off a series of internal fireworks. I’m downright
giddy, like I could do multiple backflips out of pure, unfiltered joy. My hands shake as I slide the coffeepot from the warmer plate. The squat brass tortoise tumbles into the palm of my hand and then promptly slips onto the tile floor with an insultingly loud
clang!
Wincing, I’m quick to retrieve it. My heart’s jumped to my throat, pulse haywire. But when I listen for approaching footsteps, I’m met with silence.
A slow exhale loosens from my lungs.
This trophy is a timeless Ivernia School relic, the tortoise perched atop a marbled plaque that reads “slowest but steadiest
.” Back in the forties, the track team presented it to the person who improved the most over the course of a year. It was an honor that showed dedication and strength. You might not have been the best, but you didn’t give up. It meant you stuck with the team, and in the end, you were better for it. The tradition stopped sometime in the early eighties and the trophy sat behind a wall of glass with other crowning achievements before it was swiped by a student who started the first-ever Capture game.
This antiquated trophy is the answer to my problems. It’ll prove I don’t always do what’s expected. That I’m capable of taking risks. The old Delaney wouldn’t have dreamed of getting involved in anything that would cause an ounce of conflict.
I’m about to stealthily book it back to Hyde with my grand prize when I hear it. A low, slightly hoarse voice that sets every single one of my nerve endings on fire.
“If you’re looking for a late-night snack, Carmichael,” he says, “I suggest checking your own kitchen first.”
I whirl around and—
Of course.
Sumner
freaking Winchel.
His dark tangle of waves stretches skyward like overgrown weeds, which, ironically, can also be used to describe his personality. Unwanted. Annoyingly stubborn. Showing up uninvited in the last place you’d expect.
The right side of his wire-framed glasses is wrapped in tape, a new development, but he’s wearing a familiar gray Henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The one he’s usually sporting when we’re not in uniform.
Heat rises up my neck, a flush that sinks every thought of triumph I’d envisioned. I’m not embarrassed I’ve been caught; I’m frustrated. Because this is the
one boy who’s made it his mission to turn
anything to do with me into a challenge over the last three years, ever since he realized we kept bumping each other out of the top twenty ranking.
Let it be known I never asked for this. Grade point average plays a vital role in my partial scholarship, but reaching a top twenty ranking was my own personal goal. It was a tough achievement, and Sumner made for fierce competition, but I told myself it would look good on college applications. That’s why I played into it,
not because he made a habit of provoking me. One-upping me must feed his fragile ego, so I try not to let it happen.
His gaze ticks to the tortoise in my hands. A gleeful spark flashes in his eyes, which are such a dark shade of blue they’re almost gray. Like the densest culmination of a thunderstorm. It’s fitting since Sumner tends to come in loud and unwelcome. He knows what I have, and he’s not going to let me go.
But.
There’s a chance he’ll take pity on me. He was around during the worst summer of my life, after I lost my dad to cancer earlier this year. Maybe I can talk him into pretending I was never here.
“Sumner,” I whisper, trying—and failing—to keep the panic out of my tone. “
Please don’t.”
He tilts his head, a thoughtful movement usually reserved for examining quadratic equations. I catch the lingering scent of something earthy and spiced that clings to the threads of his Henley, the opposite of the manufactured monstrosity in the locker room. A conspiratorial smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
And—hold on. Is that . . .
sympathy?
Am I about to get away with this?
My heart thumps so violently that my breathing turns quick and shallow. We stare at each other for a beat. Two.
But the hesitant expression passes, and in its stead, his gaze hardens.
“
Hey, Segner House!” he hollers into the corridor, folding his arms across his chest as he turns back to me. He leans arrogantly against the doorframe, and his cold eyes freeze whatever remaining warmth I felt toward him. “We’ve got an intruder!”
Lights brighten beneath the doors. Latches release. Footsteps jog down the thin carpet. I stand there, frozen.
That’s when I know—I am so screwed.
Copyright © 2025 by Farrah Penn. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
