Dropping my hands to my sides, I slump against the seat. “And you’re just sitting there watching me rip my nails off? Do you know how much this hurts?” I raise all ten fingers to him in defiance.

“I was testing your dedication. You passed.”

“I hate you.”

His lips twitch. “That’s probably not the last time I’ll hear that tonight.” He shows me the paper he’s been analyzing. “This is the floor plan to Simon’s Menlo Park house. It maps the obstacles we have to pass to get to the medieval jewelry box Simon keeps the algorithm in.”

“Where did you get this?” As I study the illustrations, adrenaline courses through me, clearing my sinuses.

“Harbor was one of the dancers. She slipped it into my pocket.”

“A shotgun-shell wall? A fog blaster? Footstep detector? How are we supposed to get past those?” Exhaling slowly, I try to keep from hyperventilating.

“Everyone else already has the answers—don’t you see? We have to work as a team.”

“As a class?” My eyebrows shoot up. “What happened to ‘trust no one’? We’re relying on Liam? On Harbor?”

“Yep.” He shrugs.

Lips parted, I shake my head. “We’re doomed.”

The car drops us off behind a café in the Mission District. Garrett goes straight to a pale-yellow BMW with blank black license plates parked in the alley. He circles the car, searching for a key.

“Would you hurry up?” I whisper, my insides quaking, certain someone is going to come around the corner any second and arrest us.

Kneeling in front of the passenger door, he takes out his half-diamond pick and makes quick work of the lock. The door swings open with a creak, and I jump.

“How about you relax?” he says. “Get in.”

Unable to move my quivering legs, I ignore him, my mind swirling down a rabbit hole of possible disaster scenarios. We’re going to get arrested…or shot…they’ll find out I’m really Ella… Is that what my instincts are telling me? I’m too freaked out to trust myself. “Will this thing even run?” I finally ask. “It looks like it belongs in a museum.”

“It was probably stolen from one. Check the tire.” He points to a key drawn in chalk on the rubber wheel. “Now would you get in?” Gripping my arm, he drags me to the car and deposits me inside.

“Aren’t you nervous?” I ask, slamming the heavy door with a loud bang.

“Of course I am,” he says, getting into the driver’s seat. “But I’m using my nerves to keep me moving.” Grabbing a tool bag from the backseat, he hammers a screwdriver into the ignition and turns it like a key. “You’re not into inconspicuous, are you?” he continues, not looking at me.