“Shit,” I breathed, sinking down against the side of the truck. Did I shut the door and risk the noise attracting their attention, or did I leave it open and hope they didn’t notice? In the end, I decided on a combination of both. I let the door gently swing closed and then pushed it slowly until it engaged the lock with a soft click. I pressed my lips together, perking my ears for any sense that the men had heard it. More laughter. Apparently they hadn’t.

I shuffled forward a few feet and rose up again, peeking over the hood. They were still there, still talking, only now they were moving toward me, one twirling an overstuffed key ring around one finger. If I stayed where I was, in two minutes they would be on top of me.

There was no way I was going to stay there.

I pushed away from the truck and, staying low, scurried across the aisle. I plunged in between a BMW and a Buick and crouched low again, pressing my back against the Buick and trying not to breathe. Didn’t help.

“You hear something?” I heard one of the guys say.

“No.”

“Sounded like footsteps right over there,” the first one said. I chanced a glance over the trunk of the BMW, only to see them making a beeline for the silver truck I’d just been inside. I had to go, and go now.

I leaned against the door for a second longer, bracing myself, and then sprang into action. I popped up, turned toward the back fence, and started running with everything I had.

“Hey!” I heard one of them shout, and then, “Did you see that?”

I didn’t wait around for an answer; just kicked up dirt and gravel behind me as I sprinted, then scrambled over a gutted SUV, which put me almost at the top of the fence. I hoisted myself up and over in three pulls.

The voices were too far away to be anywhere near me—almost as if they’d given up halfway through the lot—but I still let go almost from the top of the fence, hitting the grass and tumbling backward onto my butt, my arms flailing out to catch my fall. My elbow lit up in pain, but I ignored it, turning to get myself back up on my feet and plowing through the tall grass and weeds until I came out at the back of the Laundromat.

My shoes slapped the asphalt hard as I raced to Chris’s car, which was running, with him behind the wheel, waiting for me.

“Go,” I said, breathless, as I dove in and shut the door.

He slammed the car into gear and backed out, his tires screeching. Typical Chris, driving without asking a single question.

Once we were on the highway and I’d caught my breath, he slowed down.

“Well?”