“A twisty, tricksy book that will leave you unable to trust

anyone, including yourself. Ambition has never been so

ruthless, school has never been so deadly.”
Melinda Salisbury, author of Hold Back the Tide

“Once again Cynthia Murphy pulls me from a reading slump, pushes

me to the edge of my seat, and has me racing through the pages to see
who’s still alive at the end. WIN LOSE KILL DIE has all the spine-
tingling terror of LAST ONE TO DIE with even more stakes than
ever before. A deliciously bloody read for all horror fans.”
Melissa Welliver, author of The Undying Tower

“Cynthia Murphy cleverly weaves together teen drama and the dark
side of ambition in this twisty thriller. WIN LOSE KILL DIE will keep
you up at night with its swoony romance, unpredictable mysteries and
impressive body count. Witty, atmospheric and a little bit evil.”
Kathryn Foxfield, author of Good Girls Die First

“An explosive, blood-thirsty thrill ride with a break-neck twist you’ll

be thinking about for days! Karen McManus fans will devour this.”
Kat Ellis, author of Harrow Lake and Wicked Little Deeds

“Perfect for fans of Truly Devious and 90s slasher movies, this twisty
thriller has it all: a secret society steeped in intrigue, a deliciously creepy
atmosphere and a plot that kept me guessing until the very end.”
Amy McCaw, author of Mina and the Undead

“Deadly, twisted, and toxic. Cynthia Murphy is top of the class.

I’d think twice about enrolling at Morton Academy.”
Georgia Bowers, author of Mark of the Wicked

“Win Lose Kill Die is deliciously dark and creepy and

keeps you guessing the whole way through.
Atmospheric and supremely murdery – I loved it!”
Julia Tuffs, author of Hexed

“I was hooked from the very first sentence. Win Lose Kill Die
is a thrilling mix of secret societies, murder and intrigue,
making it one heck of a fun ride. A wickedly good book.”
Josie Williams, author of The Wanderer

“With its breakneck pacing and twists that kept me guessing until
the very end, WIN LOSE KILL DIE ticked every box on my dark
academia wish list: secret society, hooded cloaks, hidden passages,
and of course, a relentless string of murders. I couldn’t put it down!”
Brianna Bourne, author of You & Me at the End of the World
 Published in the UK by Scholastic, 2022
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SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or

registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

Text © Cynthia Murphy, 2022

The right of Cynthia Murphy to be identified

as the author of this work has been asserted by her
under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

ISBN 978 0702 30494 1

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is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved.

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by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated in
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part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents

and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used
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 This one is for the godkids . . .

Kyla Somerville
Grayson Coffey
Dominic Kelly

. . . always remember to follow your dreams.

 1
I didn’t mean to kill the first one.
Honest.
It was just . . . too easy, I suppose. She was already in the
water, and when I plunged my hands in to help her out, I kind
of . . . changed my mind.
Something inside snapped.
I held Little Miss Perfect’s head down and waited for her to
stop thrashing around.
It took longer than I thought, and then she just . . . floated
there. Limp. Pathetic, really.
“Accidental death,” according to the experts. That’s nearly
right. Like I said, it’s not like I set out to do it.
It felt good, though.

1
 2
I can’t believe we’re back here already.
Summer had passed by in a daze thanks to the bang to the
head I took at the end of last term. Instead of going to beach
parties with my friends and staying up to watch the sunrise
like I planned, it was full of police interviews and PTSD.
That last day of term had started so perfectly, and then. . .
“Liz.” A sharp hiss and an elbow in my ribs bring
me back to the present. Taylor is standing up straight,
her gorgeous hazel eyes focused on the stage, for all the
world playing the perfect mourner. I mimic her, my gaze
following hers to a large easel draped in black cloth. It’s
displaying a large photograph of Morgan.

2
 The girl who drowned in July.
“Pay attention.” Taylor says this out of the corner of her
mouth, like one of those creepy ventriloquist’s puppets.
She does it so effortlessly  – not one muscle in her face
moves. I guess I haven’t recovered as well as I thought,
even after all those hospital visits over the summer. I try
to concentrate, I really do, but my mind wanders as the
headmistress’s words blur into one long sermon, each pause
punctuated by the squeaking sound of rubber heels on
the parquet f loor. Autumn is seeping into the corners of
the building already and the air smells of rain and damp,
freshly laundered uniforms.
I study the picture. Morgan was pretty, in a preppy,
Reese Witherspoon in Cruel Intentions kind of a way. She
looked so sweet and unassuming, which I know was total
bull. Truth is, Morgan had the personality of a venomous
snake. You did not cross her, if you knew what was good
for you; she’d make your life at Morton a total misery if
she felt like it. It had been her idea to take the boat out
on the lake that night, her big moment after being sworn
in as head girl. She bullied most of us into it, from what
I remember, though admittedly I don’t remember much.
Not after the boat f lipped.
Dr Patel, the headmistress, ends her monologue with
the request for a minute of silence. She’s f lanked by
several members of the faculty – some of them are crying,
dabbing handkerchiefs or tissues at their faces. Her sharp

3
black trouser suit is conservative, appropriate for a pupil’s
memorial, but super stylish and paired with some killer
heels. I can’t help but admire anyone who can walk in
shoes that high, never mind run the country’s most elite
boarding school in them. The rest of the staff look frumpy
in comparison. I watch the clock and sway slightly. I’m not
used to standing up for so long after spending the summer
in bed watching nineties movies.
Taylor ignores me, her head down, eyes closed: the
perfect pupil. And mourner. Her long, naturally red hair
falls like a curtain, spilling over the grey tweed of her
blazer. Morton Academy’s very own Cheryl Blossom,
standing right next to me.
Dr Patel calls the memorial to a close and bodies start
to shuff le towards the exit in silence.
“So,” I whisper as we wait our turn to file out of the
hall, “how does it feel?”
Taylor looks at me as we emerge through the tall,
wooden doors into the corridor, smiling with her mouth
but not her eyes. “How does what feel? Being passed over
for head girl? Being so close to that full-ride scholarship I
could practically taste it? Great, thanks for asking.”
“Oh, come on. You’re deputy! That’s still pretty sweet.
Plus” – I lower my voice, even though everyone else has
resumed their own conversations too – “you know what
that means for Jewel and Bone. Being deputy in the society
means you get your pick of colleges.”

4
 Now the smile reaches her eyes.
“Yes, I do. I am very excited for this year. If I can just
find the right sponsor, schmooze the right rich person,
then I won’t have to worry about working through
university at all. Just think of all the people we’re going to
meet, the events we’ll get to go to. . .”
“You’ll get to go to,” I correct her, smiling ruefully.
“Some of the perks of the society don’t stretch past head
and deputy, remember?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Taylor chews her lip and avoids my
eyes. “I know that if you hadn’t helped me and Kat with
the scavenger hunt, you would have finished it before us.
You’d be the one being sworn in as deputy head tonight
and—”
“Hello, gorgeous!” A deep voice interrupts her as two
heavy arms thump down around our shoulders. I’m kind
of grateful for the interruption. Marcus’s aftershave is so
strong I start to cough, but Taylor immediately twinkles
up at him. I duck out from under his arm and let them
have a moment.
“What do you both look so serious about?” He looks
good, like maybe he actually slept this summer. Lucky
him.
“Oh, you know  – life, death.” She waves a polished
hand in the air. “How I spent half an hour choosing a
shade of lipstick that didn’t clash with the funeral f lowers.”
Taylor glances around furtively. “Actually, we were just

5
talking about my ceremony at JB tonight.” She stands on
her tiptoes to kiss him. “You know your girl is going up
in the world.”
“I sure do. I still think you should’ve got the top spot
instead of Jameela, though. I mean if there was anything
I could do. . .” He walks out of the hall with us, but I stop
listening as we start up the corridor to the entrance hall.
God, I missed this place. I breathe in deeply, as though I
can inhale the pure essence of Morton into my very soul. I
love the feeling of belonging, being one of a handful of kids
from all over the country who are invited to attend such
an exclusive sixth-form college. It doesn’t matter who we
are or where we’re from – we’re here because of our brains.
Rich, poor, it doesn’t matter at Morton. We’re all here
because we are damn clever – and the truth is that most
of us wouldn’t have got the chance otherwise. It’s in the
middle of nowhere and boarding is compulsory. There’s no
internet access without supervision, either – that’s one of
Morton’s USPs: good old-fashioned bookwork. You win
some, you lose some, I guess.
I take a second to remind myself it’s all real. The
stone ceiling soars over us, and our shoes tap softly on
the ancient stone f loor as we weave through bodies clad
in grey blazers that are piped with an almost lurid acid
green. The mahogany wall panels glow, sunlight streaming
through the long windows that allow us glimpses of
the vast, manicured gardens beyond them. We pass the

6
headmistress’s office and start to climb the large, curving
staircase that always makes me feel like I’m in a Disney
film. The handrail is gleaming, so polished that it’s slick
beneath my hand. The whole place smells of wood and
citrus and I adore it. It smells like home.
“Hurry up, Liz.” Marcus and Taylor are watching me
with amusement from the landing above, and I realize I’ve
zoned out a bit. “Stop daydreaming.”
“Sorry.” I duck my head to hide my f laming cheeks
as I take the remaining stairs two at a time, until I reach
the landing beneath a huge, stained-glass window. I walk
slowly, following them through the huge double doors
into the West Wing. Yes, I said West Wing – that’s how
big this place is.
This f loor is all classrooms and the science labs are right
next to classics, so I watch the perfect couple disappear
into their room and then enter my own class. Classics is
my main subject – we all do three in total, but we have
been hand-selected for these ones in particular. It’s kind of
like a specialism, something we will take on to university,
maybe even get fast-tracked. The teaching here is the best
in the country  – our expectations are set high. There’s
hardly anyone here yet, the assembly has interfered with
the timetable for the first full day back, so I choose a desk
in the middle row, by a window that looks out on to a
wide expanse of water.
The lake.

7
 Morgan.
I move quickly, my f lesh crawling as memories of that
night once again try to claw their way to the surface. I
take a pew at the opposite side of the room, as far from
the window as I can get.
The classroom fills up slowly and I’m pleased we have
a small group – not that we ever have large classes, with
only fifty chosen to attend Morton in each year group.
The teacher arrives last and I’m pleased to see we’ve got
Professor Insoll again. The man’s a legend – in the world
of ancient religious artefacts, anyway. He used to teach
at degree level but I guess Morton pays pretty well – plus
it has to be a bonus when you have a bunch of kids who
are desperate to learn rather than perpetually hungover
undergrads.
We go through all the usual first-day-back motions –
new textbooks, a prep schedule that looks ridiculously full,
and a winter exam timetable. I’m busy writing my name
on everything when a note slides across my desk.
“Pass this to Jameela,” a voice hisses.
Jameela? Hmm. I wonder if it’s Jewel and Bone business,
maybe a note about the first of the donor meetings, where
we’ll get to meet prospective sponsors who will hopefully
pay our way through university, but a quick glance around
reveals hardly anyone else in the class would have that
kind of information. I shrug and pass it on to Frank, just
in case it is. I can’t go handing out potential secret society

8
information to just anybody. “For Jameela,” I mouth,
nodding to the girl with long, dark braids sitting in front
of him. I go back to signing my name with a f lourish and
forget all about the note.
Until Jameela shoots out of her seat, screaming, and
drops the paper like it’s on fire.