XIII

I was fortunate. The next morning, when I went to Reasoning, I realized something would be very different about that day.

The door to the lecture hall was locked with a note reading, 9:00 A.M. Initiate Reasoning cancelled. Meet on front steps of Institute.

“It’s a field trip,” said Ravi as we walked.

“It can’t be a field trip,” I told him. “What would we be doing, exactly?”

“Maybe going to help in a trial,” he said. “Or investigating a murder.”

“That’s what they do in 1L. Not with initiates.”

“Maybe it’s just a break-in.”

“It won’t be field trip and it won’t be a break-in.”

Five minutes later we stood on the steps of the Institute. Judge Morris stood between our group and a waiting bus.

“Good morning,” he said. “As you may have noticed, we are going on a field trip. Today, we are going to assist in the investigation of a break-in.”

Ravi elbowed me. I elbowed him back much harder.

We herded onto the bus, fifteen of us—only four Candor-born and an Erudite were missing. Sherlock was there and gave me a strange look that I couldn’t decipher, but I shrugged it off and just went to sit with Oona and Ravi in the back.

We arrived at a large, white and blue house perched on the boundary between the Candor and Erudite districts. The iron-wrought gates opened for us when we left the bus, and a waiting Dauntless lifted the police tape so that we could get in. The house itself was surrounded by a team of Dauntless cops in black jackets and Candor investigators in white coats. One of the cops, speaking to an investigator, took a file from him. It was none other than Ace. I avoided her eyes.

Ace passed the file to Judge Morris. He looked at it and then at us. “Initiates,” he said, “today you are very lucky. Few students have the opportunity to shadow on an active crime scene, but due to the small size of your class and the nature of this case, your superiors deemed it appropriate to bring a fresh set of eyes to it. Please take out your observation pads.”

We obeyed. Each of us had an observation pad, a small spiral-ring notepad used for investigation exercises. But this wasn’t an exercise anymore—this was real. Morris cleared his throat and opened the file.

“This home belongs to an Erudite man named Thomas Beauregard. Last night, Beauregard was out of his house and working late at the office. When he returned at three a.m., he believed he heard a noise, like someone was in the house, but dismissed it as nothing. He went to lock his door, then realized that the security systems were offline and that one of the cords had been severed. He called the police immediately. When we arrived, nothing had been stolen except Beauregard’s Choosing Ceremony knife, which had been in a glass box in his living room.”

We began to scribble notes furiously.

Oona raised her hand. “Your Honor? Why did he have his knife?”

“Beauregard is sixty-three years old,” said Morris. “When he was sixteen, metal was cheaper. Everyone got to keep their knife.”

That made more sense. All of our resources nowadays were in short supply; we had no choice but to recycle everything. But there were still a few people left who could remember when life wasn’t like that.

“So why would someone steal it?” asked Oona.

“That’s for you to find out,” said Morris.

Sherlock raised his hand as well. “Does he live alone?”

Morris nodded. “His ex-wife divorced him twelve years ago and his only son transferred to Amity. Neither family member has been in contact with him lately.”

“It’s gotta be the ex-wife,” said Ravi. “It’s always the ex.”

“Not necessarily,” said Morris. “She has openly stated that she still respects him, and for good reason. Beauregard is the chair of the Low-Income Education Board, the organization that provides education to factionless children. He has good relationships with everyone he knows.”

“Could still be the ex-wife,” Ravi shrugged. “People lie.”

“She certainly didn’t lie when a Candor went to her house and asked,” said Ace.

I thought back to our time at the Merciless Mart—how effortlessly Ace had lied to the front desk security and then to Irene’s secretary. Ironic that Ace was claiming so much faith in a Candor’s lie detection ability.

“Those are all the hints I will give you,” said Morris. “I have grouped you into five teams of three. Each team will have thirty minutes to investigate the house. We shall return to the Institute and you shall have the afternoon to work with your group and present what you observed, what questions you asked, who you think committed the crime, and why it was committed, as well as anything else you have observed. The team with the best investigative report will receive merciful permission to skip for two full days.”

That caused a little stir. While it wasn’t required to attend classes, most of us were still terrified by the threat of failing the initiate exams. The administration understood this. As a result, a common incentive around the Institute was what we called merciful permission to skip, or “mercy skip”—granted by the administration to students unable to attend class, but who still wished to learn the information. The student would be given the professor’s full lecture notes for the classes missed. Initially, mercy skips had been intended for students who got sick, so they wouldn’t pass their illness on to the whole Institute. But mercy skips had other uses, like incentivizing a break-in investigation.

Morris split us into our groups. I was with Leanne from Erudite and Sherlock. A pretty evenly balanced team, if I said so myself; I was ready to ask Leanne everything she knew about how Erudite households worked. We were to go in the second shift.

Since it was a nice day, we were told to just sit and study in the park across the street. But it became clear that nobody was having anything of the sort. This was a real crime scene. Chatter ran wild among the crowd. Maybe it was the ex-wife. Maybe Beauregard had secret enemies. Had anyone heard anything else about the man? No? Not even the Erudite transfers? Okay. Crime in general was not common in the factions—at least, not that we knew of. Crime was something that happened to the factionless. But there was still an undeniable spice to it, a sex appeal that beckoned.

I sat alone under a tree, my laptop open. Oona had gone with the first group and Ravi had been whisked away by some of the Dauntless. They liked his spunk, I guess.

I wondered, for a flash second, if Ravi could be Divergent too. He was smart as an Erudite, clever as a Candor, and brash as a Dauntless. What about Oona? Sometimes she seemed so torn between her Amity upbringing and her Candor ancestry. For that matter, what about Ace? I had never met a true Dauntless who would willingly choose what seemed like the most boring security job in the world. Sometimes Ace acted more like an Erudite than anything, self-centered, cocky, and one step ahead of everyone. It would explain why she didn’t like me much.

Was I overthinking this? Was Irene just telling me something made-up to get me off her back? Was it really that dangerous? If I could tell when other people might be Divergent, could other people tell that I—

“Hey, earth to Phoebe?”

I looked up. Sherlock was there, his hands in his pockets.

“Oh. Hey,” I said.

“Can I sit?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He sat a few feet away. He coughed. I just looked back at my laptop, where I had my class notes open.

“What are you working on?” Sherlock asked.

I showed him. “Reviewing for Arguments. We have the debate tomorrow.”

We had debates every Thursday. Judge Bandele would give us a topic and split us up, and each of us would have five minutes to argue a point on behalf of the team. It was spitfire and hectic and very, very intimidating. Last week’s topic had been “Should the Choosing age be lowered to fourteen?”

“There’s rumors that this question will be ‘Should roommates be optional’,” said Sherlock.

I laughed. “I wish.”

He just grinned and picked a few blades of grass to fiddle with.

“Why aren’t you sitting with the Candor?” I asked.

“Who said I’m not?”

“You know I’m not a real Candor yet.”

“Fair.” He shrugged. “Well, Brighton and Eurydice are dating now, and Clyde’s inside, so I’m the third wheel.”

I frowned. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You can’t tell?” Sherlock chuckled, then pointed across the lawn.

Eurydice and Brighton were curled up under a tree, Brighton’s jacket draped over Eurydice’s thin shoulders. She shifted to kiss his cheek. I couldn’t help but stare. I’d only seen a few kisses in my life—some between my parents, others more recently in passing in the Institute halls. But never anything this intimate.

In return, Brighton tilted Eurydice’s chin up and pressed his lips to hers. Air hissed between my teeth and I looked away. Part of me waited for someone to scold them. Another part wondered, with a tug of desperation, what it felt like to do that.

“You okay?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, then amended it. I was still gradually learning not to say that I was fine when I wasn't. “Public displays of affection are still—kinda hard to see. I’m getting used to it.”

“Why—oh. Abnegation. Right.”

I chuckled. “Is it really that hard to tell me apart from a real Candor?”

“Honestly? Yes!” Sherlock laughed, running his hand through his dark curls. “You’re one of the most brutally honest, self-assured people that I’ve ever met, and I grew up in this faction.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“If it’s not, take it as one.”

We fell into an amicable silence. After a while, we worked on Reasoning practice problems together.

And then it happened. Oona’s group returned, led by Ace. “Group two,” Ace announced.

Sherlock, Leanne, and I got up and followed her across the street to the house. When we drew closer, I noticed that many of the investigators and cops had vanished. Only one, a bored-looking young Candor man, was left.

“This is Detective Ryan,” said Ace.

“Here are your gloves,” said Ryan, passing out several pairs of white gloves. “Couple ground rules in there—I’m only gonna tell you what Morris says is okay to tell you; if you want to know more, you gotta figure it out yourself. Don’t touch the evidence unless you have to, and if you feel like you should, ask me first. If you’re leaving the first floor, ask me or your guard.”

“I have a name,” said Ace.

Ryan ignored her. “Let’s go in.”

We followed him into the front door. I tried to hide my amazement when I saw the inside—the white ceiling stretched two stories up; a beautiful spiral staircase led up to an indoor bridge and a crystal chandelier glittered over the huge living room. Beauregard was a man who liked luxury.

Ryan stopped in the front door and knelt. A little yellow card with the number 3 sat on the ground by the doorframe.

“This is where the alarm system was sabotaged,” he said.

“That’s one of those flimsy older models,” said Sherlock. “The newer ones send an alert if someone tries to saw through it like that. Beauregard didn’t think he was at much of a risk, did he?”

It was a pretty keen observation. I began to nod, but then Ryan gave Sherlock a look.

“Just let me do my damn job, Sherlock Holmes,” said Ryan.

“My name really is Sherlock, actually,” said Sherlock, clearly not getting the insult.

Ryan continued giving us the tour of the first floor, which took exactly thirty seconds more. He told us that the intruder likely climbed over the fence to get in and out, but had left no trace. The only other piece of evidence was the living room mantelpiece—Beauregard’s Choosing Ceremony knife. Or the lack of. The knife had rested in a glass case above the fireplace. This glass case had been carefully lifted off the fireplace and set on the floor, where someone had unlatched it and removed the knife.

That was all Detective Ryan told us, and presumably, all there was. I didn’t see any more yellow tags. So Sherlock, Leanne, and I got to work. Sherlock checked for fingerprints on the case (none). Leanne checked out the security system (someone just slid a serrated blade through and sawed at the wire that would have sounded if the lock was tampered with). I checked the handle of the door (our thief was, indeed, a lockpicker). But that was it. We were done with it in five minutes and sat in a circle in the living room.

“Is that really it?” Leanne asked. “It’s too simple. Someone came in, took the knife, and left.”

“But how did they leave?” asked Sherlock. “Beauregard said he heard someone in the house when he got home. The thief couldn’t leave through the front because he was standing there the whole time.”

“The thief could have left another way,” I said.

“Back door, windows,” suggested Leanne.

“Already checked those, but if you want,” muttered Ryan.

So we did. Just as Ryan said, we found nothing. The windows all had screens that needed to be unscrewed, making a quick escape impossible. The back door had a terribly squeaky hinge and Ryan informed us that Beauregard did not hear the sound of the hinge. The garage and the front door were the only way in and out, and Beauregard had not heard the garage door either.

But something about it didn’t quite strike me right.

“Wait,” I said. “If Beauregard has a car, why did he enter through the front door? Not the garage?”

Leanne and Sherlock shrugged. We all looked to Detective Ryan.

“I’m—not permitted to say,” he said. But we all knew basic lie detection. He had no idea.

I checked the security logs on the garage and front doors. The signal from the front cut out at around 2:50 a.m., ten minutes before Beauregard said to have come home, but there was no record that the garage door had been opened at any point after that. Or, for that matter, before. The last time the garage door had been opened was the previous night. Beauregard had not driven to work that morning.

“Did he often carpool?” asked Sherlock.

Ryan shifted awkwardly. “I’m not permitted to say.”

“Can we check his debit card statements?” I asked. “Maybe if he took the bus, we’ll know.”

“I—have to call my supervisor about that,” said Ryan.

I was beginning to itch. Suddenly, a basic crime scene turned into a hundred possibilities of mystery. Maybe Beauregard not driving to and from work on the day of the break-in was a coincidence, but my gut told me that there was a connection. Somewhere. My teammates seemed to agree. I wanted to explore more of the house, badly. Leanne seemed to notice me shifting back and forth between my feet and said, “Keep going. I’ll negotiate the call, okay?”

“Thank you so much,” I said.

With Ace silently following, Sherlock and I set off. Neither of us found anything of note in the kitchen, dining room, or downstairs office. There was a wine cellar that I was curious about, but it was locked. There was no sign of lockpicking as there had been on the front door.

We went upstairs. For a single man, Beauregard had a lot of space. An entertainment room with a huge television, a personal library, and a bedroom that could have swallowed my whole house in Abnegation. For a while I just stood in the center of the bedroom, soaking in the sun from a diamond-shaped skylight in the slanted ceiling.

“Well, this is kind of a dead end,” said Sherlock. “Didn’t see anything in the bathroom, the windows there are the same as downstairs.”

“Maybe we should have taken the back door more seriously,” I murmured.

“It’s possible the thief did escape through there, but Beauregard was so surprised about the front door damage that he didn’t hear,” Sherlock put in.

“Or you two are entirely overthinking it,” said Ace.

“It’s investigation,” I said. “We’re supposed to think a lot.”

She held out her arms in an exaggerated shrug. “He’s old as hell. Maybe he imagined that he heard someone inside the house, when the thief actually left before he got home.”

I closed my eyes, letting the sunlight warm my face. They both had a point. But something was still missing, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. It itched. I reached behind my neck to itch the base of my scalp. Then under my starched cuffs and latex gloves to itch my wrists. Then my nose, hot with the sun.

The skylights.

There were two of them on the outside of the house. I remembered. Erudite buildings were all so symmetrical like that. This was one of them, the other…

I whirled around. On the other side of the room was the bathroom and a walk-in closet. I raced into the bathroom. The ceiling was just the height of a normal ceiling, meaning there was a huge space between the ceiling and the roof. I checked the closet. It was the same way. But on this ceiling was a square.

“Is that the attic door?” I asked Ace.

“As far as I know, yes,” she said.

I flicked on the light to see better. There was no easy way to get into the attic, no stepladder in sight. Just open cabinets with rows of suits and neatly-folded pants. Or mostly neat. Some of the pant squares had odd indentations and dirt markings, like someone had stepped on them. It became very clear to me that you didn’t need a stepladder to get into the attic.

“The thief climbed the cabinets to get to the attic,” I said. “We have to check up there.”

“Incredible,” Sherlock murmured.

Ace paled. “I think I should ask Ryan first.”

I gave her a look. “Are you saying that because you actually respect Ryan, or because you think I’m about to try something stupid?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” Ace said.

“That’s what I thought. Look, I’m not going to touch anything,” I said. “If we find that the skylight’s shattered and the thief escaped off the roof, then I’ll ask to touch things.”

“Fine,” said Ace finally. “But you’re not climbing.” She knelt and told me, “Get on my shoulders.”

I couldn’t argue. I did. As if I was a small child, Ace lifted me to the height of the attic door, letting me push it open. Despite not being that strong, I surprised myself by pulling myself over the edge without any help from Ace. Then I stood, coughing.

The attic was dark and grey and empty. The diamond skylight, dusty from countless years of neglect, let in only dim, filtered light. There were only a few boxes and old pieces of furniture stacked in the corners. It shouldn’t have scared me, but there was something deeply eerie about the place, something in how my breath echoed in the space that I didn’t like. Like I was being watched. I was relieved when I finally heard a voice from downstairs.

“What do you see?” Sherlock called.

“Not much,” I replied.

I moved forward, shuffling through mothballs. The dust was disturbed in places and not by me. Someone had been here recently.

“I definitely think our thief came here,” I continued. “I’m gonna check out the window.”

“Don’t touch anything! I’m sending Sherlock up, and I’ll follow in a second,” said Ace.

“I won’t touch, I promise,” I called back.

I knelt in front of the window. There were definite signs that it had been tampered with. It couldn’t open and the screws around the edges were rusted shut. But like the floor, the dust showed a rich history of movement. One tiny panel, I realized, was even loose, and seemed to have been removed at some point. I went back on my promise for a minute in order to try removing it again. A breath of fresh air poured in and a beam of light shone on the ground.

Onto a patch of crumbs.

At first, I wasn’t sure if I was seeing it right. Crumbs? From food? But when I knelt, I realized I was right. They were breadcrumbs, fresh and soft. The thief had eaten here? Why? Escaping from a crime scene wasn’t exactly the best time to stop for a snack.

And that was when it all clicked. None of the windows or doors had seemed forced open because they weren’t. The tiny panel on the skylight was the only thing damaged because the skylight wasn’t the escape route. The thief had stopped for a snack because the thief wasn’t going anywhere fast. And the echoes of my breath—the deep shadows of the boxes and furniture—the creaking of the floorboards—

We didn’t know how the thief escaped because the thief never left the house.

I turned. I sprinted for the attic door.

“ACE—”

Something collided with me. Something dark and dusty and inhumanly strong.

I tumbled to the ground. I rolled with the thing, but it wouldn’t let go, and all I could do was scream and flail helplessly. A bony hand squeezed my neck. A wiry arm looped around my body. I had bitten a hole in my cheek and coughed on blood.

I fought to get to my feet, but the thing pulled me into its body. I couldn’t breathe. Its greasy yellow hair swung in front of my eyes.

Sherlock was on the ground, eyes wide, having just been lifted into the attic. But there was nothing he could do. He just trembled. Then Ace appeared in a black flash, jumping between Sherlock and me and the thing.

“Let her go!” Ace snapped.

The thing laughed. It was female. I looked down at the arms wrapped around my body—they might have been delicate, once. But the woman who held me was not. The shaking hands were wrapped in crude black gloves and the wrists were peppered with blisters.

“If I can’t get Mister Beau, this kid’ll have to do,” the woman slurred. I could feel her hot spittle on the back of my neck. I didn’t care. I just sobbed.

Shing!

A flash of metal. The woman pulled a knife. A Choosing Ceremony knife. The tip wavered by my collarbone.

Ace pulled her gun.

“Drop the knife or I’ll shoot!” she shouted.

“You’d do that?” the woman cackled. But this time, it almost sounded like my weeping. She pressed the knifepoint through my shirt, drawing blood. I gasped in pain. “You’d think…a Dauntless would call me brave. You’d think—a Candor—would call this justice—”

BANG!

The knife sliced air and the skin of my chest, the arms around me loosened, and Ace’s gunshot echoed so deep in my head that I didn’t know if I would ever stop hearing it. The woman dropped to the ground behind me. She did not move again.

I stared. Then I fell into Ace’s arms and cried.