I blinked and then reread the message. There were only two things that were really clear about all this, and both of them made me feel like Mrs. Smith’s lasagna was going to come right back up again. The first was the most obvious—this was a Cocoon. It was illegal, and my name was on it. Not Regan’s. Although, I frowned, it was obvious that a future version of herself had been the one to write it, but that wouldn’t hold up in Glitch court. Especially since she was the commander’s daughter. My name, however, was indisputable, and I felt a surge of anger. There was no way any future version of myself was chummy with Regan Fitz. Even if I was, what kind of person would put condemning evidence like this down on paper? The whole purpose of it seemed to be to mess up my sim test tomorrow, something that I was not going to let happen under any circumstances. I’d worked too hard.

I sat back and stared at the dull tan wall of the dorm room I’d called home ever since I could remember. If I got caught with a Cocoon, then all that extra training, the extra simulations, the hours and hours in the library researching, would be for what? Jail time? There were no second chances for a time-traveling criminal. The world had learned the hard way that ruthless justice was the only way to ensure that the past remained untampered with.

I reread the letter. My first instinct was to march right back out the door and find Fitz. My second instinct was to make the letter disappear. If there was no evidence, there was no crime. I could just pretend that I’d never seen my name written on a Cocoon, and I could stay on track to become the best Glitcher the Academy had ever seen. All of this went away if the letter went away. But the problem was that Fitz knew about the letter, if her overreaction to me taking it was any indication, which meant that my fate was in her entitled little hands.

Chapter Four

Regan

The house smelled like cheese and marinara sauce, and I had a piece of garlic bread in my mouth before I even registered that I’d reached for it. My stomach let out a little contented gurgle, and I reached for a second piece. I never had a chance. A familiar hand, slim and white with a small silver ring, darted out and smacked mine.

“Enough of that,” said Mrs. Ellsworth. I frowned at her, rubbing my stinging fingers as I shoved the piece of bread I’d been holding into my mouth before she commandeered it. In this kitchen, she was queen, and I was nothing.

“Sorry,” I muttered.