An attendant wearing a fleece jacket directs me in. Evil Twin Family still hasn’t exited. The dad scoops his daughter, who dangles boneless in his arms. The mom tugs on the son’s arm. He pulls back, trying to stay seated. The mom, with fiery-red hair and a Louis Vuitton tote sliding down her arm, looks at the attendant as if to ask if they can just stay.

I swallow hard. What if her phone rings? What if she has a distinct ringtone? She’ll hear. She’ll know I stole it.

“You need to exit, ma’am,” Gray Fleece Attendant says with a drawn-out Wisconsin accent.

I could kiss him.

The parents drag their kids out of the car just as the exit door closes. I rush to sit as Gray Fleece Attendant waves the couple behind me into the same car. The paunchy pair waddles in. My shoulders stiffen. The automated doors close. The air conditioning whirls on, and the wheel carries us upward.

“Oh, that was fast,” the woman says in a slow, shrill voice. She fans herself as if she’s overexerted herself.

I glance at Evil Twin Family below. They drop the girl, kicking her legs in circular motions, into the stroller and hurry away. They don’t seem to notice the missing cell.

Shoving my hat inside my bag, I grab the phone, plastered with the twins’ pictures on the case. They’d snapped so many shots along the pier, I was able to glimpse her password—a phishing technique I learned from Adam.

I picture his smile, the way he lifted his left eyebrow every time he said something clever and wanted me to praise him for it. If he were here, he would chastise me for the risks I’m taking, while crouching in the seat beside me, directing me on what to do next. Thinking about him is enough to drain me. I clench every muscle to keep from slumping against the plastic and giving in to my grief.

“Is that your brother and sister?” I look up to see the woman smiling at me, waiting for my response. A limp felt hat dips awkwardly in front of her face.

I shift in my seat and fan my hands over the case, concealing the pictures, wondering if she realizes this phone isn’t mine. But her eyebrows lift in curiosity. Her face is all lit up like her intrusive chitchat is interesting.

“No.” I turn sideways to face the window. I type in the code, 102877, and set the alarm for eleven minutes. For the first time in weeks, I access the Internet without worrying about who might be monitoring my activity.

Adam discovered the date of the next flash attack, but if I’m going to record it, if I’m going to expose Lip Spikes and make him pay for everything he’s stolen from me, I need the time and location.