“Charlie,” I say, “what else have you lied to me about?”

Charlie squirms, the muscles contracting around her spine, then starts talking. Haltingly, she tells me how she really broke her nose, how she cooked those Maltese meals with incomprehensible names to assuage her terrible guilt, how she has been reading my journal all this time, and how she regretted it but also cherished it because it made her feel close to me. She confesses other things that make me feel very stupid. How could I not see it?

Anyone else would have seen it.

A jury would see it, too.

Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I push her off and say, “Just . . . move over there, will you?”

“Where?”

“Over there.”

“There’s no room.”

Charlie corkscrews her body in a way that maximizes contact with mine.

“Hey,” I say, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“What am I doing?”

“Don’t act innocent.”

“I am innocent.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m trying to move where you told me to.”

“No,” I say. “You’re rubbing.”

The word is vibrant with accusation, as if I am denouncing her for trafficking disabled orphans or something.

“Well, I’m sorry, but there’s nowhere to go in here.”

I am acutely aware of her breasts pressing on me, her radiant body heat.

“Can’t you turn around or something?”

She rotates around, frisking against me, until her body jigsaws with mine, her ass articulating with my pelvis.

“That’s not any better.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Quit doing that thing with your hips.”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“You know exactly what you are doing.”

“Don’t blame me, Otto. I didn’t pick this closet.”

“Just turn here,” I say while grabbing her shoulders in a very businesslike way, “and like this...” I position her until she is sideways so that nothing irresistible is pressing against me, but it doesn’t help much. My pants still feel five sizes too small.

“Happy now?” says Charlie.

“Very.” Then, to Kong, I say, “Any progress with that alarm?”

Kong’s geysering of obscenity informs me that he is still working on it.

“Stop moving,” I say to Charlie.

“You sure you want me to?”

“What do you mean?”

“Something hard in your pocket is stabbing me.”

For a moment I feel abashed—it’s hard to maintain any credibility in the I-detest-you-and-revile-everything-you-stand-for department while nudging your girl’s hip with a boner—but then I feel something more dire: panic. The button is in my pocket. If Charlie discovers it before I have a chance to summon Nunes, she’ll know I’m here to take her in. And that would make things extremely complicated.

I should just push the button right now but something— maybe my overwhelmed senses, maybe Charlie telling me the truth, maybe the fact I still owe Charlie for saving my life mere minutes ago—won’t let me.