In that split second, she decided to get the hell out of there. He obviously wasn’t hurt. No harm, no foul, right? And she didn’t really want to stop and have him ream her out or even threaten to sue her or worse. Best to keep driving. She hit the gas, then saw the post! So close and directly in her path!

“Shit!” She cranked hard on the wheel to avoid it, but grazed her side-view mirror, ripping it so it hung by wires. The glass was shattered, but she didn’t stop. The van spun around the corner, and in the splintered reflection, she spied the guy still chasing her, frantically waving his hands.

“Hey! Stop! Fuck!”

Her heart was already pounding crazily, her breathing shallow, her hands shaking on the wheel. She’d been certain he was going to fire a gun through her windshield, hitting her and causing her van to go out of control, careening through the garage, possibly hitting a pillar or another car or something, but definitely killing her.

But she’d been wrong.

Nope.

Not gonna happen.

With one eye in the rearview, knowing he could catch her, she sped down the two floors to the exit, paid the attendant, and didn’t wait for change, just shot out of the building the minute the barricade bar lifted.

Barely glancing to her left, she joined oncoming traffic and suffered the sharp honk of a truck that was forced to brake, then maneuver around her. The driver shook his fist, but she didn’t care. “Get over it!” she muttered, but didn’t return the hand gesture. Better not to get him pissed off. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. No doubt the parking structure had cameras, and if the guy she nearly ran over wanted to cause trouble, he could, she supposed. There was the evidence of her broken mirror, but for now, she’d forget it, deal with the fallout when it came and take her grandmother’s age-old advice of not borrowing trouble.

“It’ll find you, soon enough,” Gramma Jean had said often enough. “It’s best not to go lookin’ for it.”

Amen to that, Charity thought, as she drove toward the Bay Bridge, which stretched across the dark water to the winking lights of Oakland and her small, almost seedy motel room, where the daily rate was still far too steep for the lousy, paper-thin walls, sagging mattress on the bed, and cheesy Internet service. If only she could afford something in the city with a penthouse view, spa service . . . God, even room service would be a luxury over the partially filled vending machine in the hallway of the Good Bay Motel, where there was nothing good about it and the bay was half a mile away.