Seven
Danica
I hustle down the stairs to the parking garage, already envisioning my breakfast. My hair whips around my face as I round the corner to where my car should be—my sanctuary on wheels, my reliable, slightly dented eight-year-old Jetta. Except…it’s not there.
A tidal wave of dread crashes against my chest. I look around to make sure I’m on the right floor. But there’s only one parking floor, and this is correct. It was right here in stall number six. Who would steal it? It’s not exactly a car someone would take for a joyride or to brag about. It’s just…dependable. It wasn’t even clean. There were spilled fries from last week between the seats. But it’s vanished into thin air.
“Great. Just great,” I mutter, fighting the urge to spin in circles as if it might magically appear. It’s gone. I press my fingers to my temples, squinting in the dim light. A trickle of panic curls through me. I can’t afford this—not the loss, not the hit to the fragile stability I’ve fought so hard to maintain. Control, I need control, but it slips through my fingers like sand.
Who would do this? Why my car?
Moments stretch as I stand there, alone in the silence, my heart hammering. I pull out my phone with shaking hands, ready to unravel this mystery. There has to be an explanation, a solution. There always is. And I’ll find it because that’s what I do—I fix things, no matter how broken they seem. I have to.
I jab at my phone, summoning the non-emergency number with a shaky finger.
“San Francisco Police Department. How can I help you?” The voice on the other end is disinterested, routine.
“Hi, my name’s Danica Winters, and my car— It’s gone from my parking spot. It’s not where I parked it in the garage. I think it’s been stolen.” I try to keep the tremor out of my voice, to sound in control, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide.
“Address, make, and model?” the woman asks.
I rattle off all the particulars, including the dent, so they’ll know which car is mine. God, I hope it wasn’t used in some kind of heist or a hit-and-run.
The line goes quiet for what feels like hours before the operator returns. “We have a report here of a vehicle towed from that location. An eight-year-old Jetta parked in a private space.” She rattles off the license plate.
“That’s my car, but wait! That’s my private space!” My words fall on deaf ears.
“Ma’am, you’ll need to take that up with the towing company.” The click in my ear tells me the conversation is over, that I’m alone again in this mess.
My mind races, connecting dots with ruthless efficiency. There’s only one person petty enough, vindictive enough, to pull a stunt like this. That neighbor, with his early-morning noise and penchant for parking in my space. I storm out of the garage, my steps echoing off the concrete walls, fury burning hot in my chest.
Back upstairs, I tear my files apart to find my sublease before I open the rideshare app with a vengeance, securing a car to the restaurant where Marisa awaits. He’s five minutes out, and I return to stand on the sidewalk outside, tapping my toe and calculating the cost of this inconvenience.
The driver pulls up with a smile. I growl at him as I slide into the seat, and he doesn’t say another word.
As we navigate the streets of San Francisco, I add twelve dollars to the mental tally of expenses—each cent a debt I plan to extract from my devious neighbor. My thoughts whirl. No one messes with my life, my control, without consequence. Not anymore.
“Here we are,” the driver announces as we pull up to the café.
“Thank you,” I say mechanically, stepping out onto the sidewalk. The bill’s going to be hefty, but today, revenge is priceless.
The bell above the door rings my frantic entrance, and the warm aroma of smoked bacon does nothing to ease the tempest inside me. I spot Marisa in a corner booth, her expression shifting from casual to concerned as I approach.
“What’s wrong?” she asks before I even slide into the seat opposite her.
“That obnoxious neighbor,” I spit, nearly knocking over her coffee. “Not only did he wake me up at an ungodly hour with his ridiculous noise but then—then he had my car towed!”
Marisa’s eyes widen, her lips setting into a thin line of solidarity. “What? That’s insane! Your car? It’s like he’s targeting you.”
“Exactly!” My heart races. “An eight-year-old gray Jetta, Marisa. Who does that?”
“Someone who’s going to regret messing with Danica Winters,” she says.
We both know this isn’t just about the car. It’s a tipping point after all the crap he’s pulled since I moved in three months ago.
“Retribution is mandatory,” I declare, feeling an unfamiliar thrill. But first things first, I need to regain what’s mine. “I need sustenance, and then I need to get to the tow yard and find my car. I’ve got the sublease for the parking space right here.” I pull the folded document from my purse, the paper crinkling in my grip.
The server arrives, and I order a chili cheese omelet, calories be damned. Marisa orders a spinach and feta egg white omelet.
When the server leaves, Marisa tells me about her date last night. The guy talked her into meeting at his boat in Sausalito. First, the picture from the dating app was at least twenty years old, and second, he took her on a sunset cruise without any lights to navigate back. She was forced to stand on the bow and use the flashlight on her cell phone to help avoid the rocks. There will be no second date. I’m not sure I would have left with him to start with, but Marisa is more adventurous than me.
Our breakfast arrives, and my omelet helps cool my rage from a twenty to a simmering five.
“Let’s go,” Marisa says firmly when we’ve finished eating.
I nod and slide out of the booth.
She directs me to where she parked, and we ride in silence through the City, following Waze to get to our destination on the grittier edge of South San Francisco. Marisa pulls up to the tow lot, a place almost laughable in its dreariness.
“Here we are,” she says.
“Thanks for the lift,” I mutter, stepping out of the car onto gravel that crunches beneath my shoes.
“I’ll wait until you have your car.”
“Thank you.” I’m relieved she’s not leaving me here. This area doesn’t exactly scream safe. As I move toward the fence, the sudden snarls of two Dobermans halt me mid-stride. Their teeth flash behind the chain-link barrier, and I jump what feels like at least five feet in the air.
“Easy, guys,” I say, swallowing a lump of fear.
“Danica, stay calm,” Marisa warns from a safe distance, her eyes locked on the dogs.
“Right. That’s been my motto all day,” I reply with a shaky laugh.
I straighten my back, clenching the copy of my sublease like a shield. Today, I reclaim control, starting with my car. Then it’s time to deal with the neighbor.
I march up to the grimy bulletproof window of the impound office. Through the thick glass, a woman with a disinterested expression looks me over. “Can I help you?”
“Someone had my car towed,” I state, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I have proof here that it was parked in my private space.”
She shrugs, indifferent to my plight. “Look, we don’t deal with disputes. We just pick up and store. If your car’s here, then someone reported it.”
“Who called it in?” Marisa asks, joining me at the window.
The woman shakes her head. “No idea. But you’ll need nine hundred cash to get it out.”
“Nine hundred?” My voice cracks. “Can I pay with a card?”
“Cash only,” she insists.
I feel close to tears, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of this woman who doesn’t care. “Fine,” I bite out. “We’ll be back.”
Marisa guides me away, and thanks once again to Waze, my map app, we make our way toward a branch of my bank. I wrestle with the sting of helplessness, a sensation I know all too well. “Danica, we’ll sort this out,” Marisa assures me, but I barely hear her.
At the bank, my hands shake as I complete the transaction for a cash advance, the fees mocking me. It feels like hours before we’re back at the impound lot, cash in hand, reclaiming what’s rightfully mine.
“Let’s make one more stop,” I say once my car is finally in my possession again.
Marisa nods. She follows me straight to the police station, where I lodge a complaint about being wrongfully towed. The officer on duty takes my report and a copy of my sublease, his face impassive as he explains my options.
“If you can prove it was your neighbor, you might have a case in civil court,” he says, typing up the details.
“Thank you,” I murmur. But even as I nod, I know that’s likely more trouble than it’s worth.
As we walk back to the parking lot, though, I resolve that this isn’t the end. Not for my neighbor, not for me. There’s a fire kindling within, fueled by every ounce of chaos I’ve ever known. It’s time to fight back.
“You haven’t had anything since breakfast,” Marisa says. “Let’s get some dinner. My treat.”
I shake my head. I just want to go home and have this miserable day be over. But eventually, she wears me down.
Back in our neighborhood, Marisa leads me into a cozy corner booth at our favorite Italian bistro, La Trattoria. I slump against the red leather seat, exhaustion draped over me like a heavy cloak.
“Here.” Marisa slides a glass of chianti across the table to me. “You need this.”
I take a grateful sip, allowing the rich flavor to linger on my tongue. It’s a minor reprieve, but it’s something. For a moment, we sit in silence.
“Okay, so let’s hear it,” she prompts. “How do we make Mr. Tow-My-Car pay for ruining your day?”
I lean forward. “He thinks he can just walk all over me, but he has no idea who he’s dealing with.” My mind races, flipping through possibilities.
“You could sign him up for every junk mail service known to man,” Marisa suggests. “Flood his mailbox until he drowns in coupons and fake sweepstakes.”
“Or,” I muse, “we could get creative. Maybe a Craigslist ad for free goats at his address? No, wait—how about a phony listing selling his precious Lamborghini for pennies on the dollar?”
Marisa chuckles.
“But whatever we do, it has to be big,” I continue. “He needs to learn you don’t mess with Danica Winters.”
“Cheers to that,” Marisa says, raising her drink for a toast. We clink our glasses together, the sound sharp and satisfying.
“Here’s to the demise of the world’s shittiest neighbor,” I intone, the wine warming me from the inside out.
We spend the next hour weaving an intricate web of pranks and plots, each idea more devious than the last. With every suggestion, a little more power seeps back into my veins, chased by the thrill of impending revenge.
Eventually, we leave La Trattoria with our plan half-formed, but our spirits bolstered. As the San Francisco night wraps around us, I feel a flicker of the old me, the one who doesn’t just endure the confusion but thrives within it. And for the first time today, I smile, because I know one thing for certain. Whenever we make our move, that neighbor of mine won’t see us coming.