I grit my teeth and put my key into the lock of the front entrance, quickly stepping into the lobby. I stick another key into one of the tiny metal mailboxes to the left. The box is so small the postman has no choice but to crumple the mail before stuffing it in, as if people in my building aren’t even entitled to birthday cards that don’t have the appearance of discarded garbage. But today it’s all junk, except for one envelope addressed to a woman whose name I don’t use anymore. I tuck it into my purse and head up the narrow staircase to my apartment.

When I get inside I double lock the door before applying a thick chain.

My studio is sparse. There’s a little nightstand by my futon, where the picture of me and my mother at Disney World resides regally in its cheap plastic frame. My desk is completely buried, strewn with copies of newspaper and magazine articles about HGVB Bank and about Edmund Gable and the “Gable Boys” (as Esquire refers to Lander and Travis). THE KING OF FINANCIAL INVESTORS, reads another title boldly printed below a picture of Travis.

And then there are the old articles, articles about Nick Foley. A VP at HGVB Bank murdered in cold blood by his maid. A sordid tale of infidelity, jilted lovers, perversion—everything the media loves . . . except maybe the truth.

But the articles sound so confident in their reporting. According to one, this woman, this murderess, this maid, had been rejected by her lover, the wealthy, respectable Nick Foley. You see, in a moment of weakness, Mr. Foley had fallen into the centuries-old tradition of fucking the help. But when his wife found out, the remorseful Mr. Foley tried to break it off. Clearly that was to be expected. But in this telling, the maid didn’t take it well. This maid had hoped that Mr. Foley would leave his wife for her. She didn’t understand.

She didn’t understand her place.