For forty minutes Dwyer interrogates you. As Metti has enjoyed humiliating you, now the manager of Maid Brigade enjoys humiliating you. And you are willing to be humiliated, you are apologetic, abject. The fear that you may be arrested by police, jailed for theft, unable to convince authorities that you are not a thief, has been rising in you, like a fever.

You tell Dwyer that you don’t want any of the gifts. You’d rarely worn them, except in Metti’s company. Please, would he return them to Metti! Maybe that will placate him.

Dwyer regards you with some measure of sympathy. Though mostly he is disgusted with you.

Telling you that Metti is very angry. On the phone he was shouting. Sounded as if he’d been drinking. You’re damned lucky he didn’t call the police immediately.

Dwyer concedes, Metti’s account is suspicious—claiming you stole the items over a period of weeks. If you had, and he’d noticed, why hadn’t he reported the thefts at the time? Why would he wait until you’d stolen a half-dozen items, and then report it? And if he gave you the car, and the title has been made over in your name—obviously you hadn’t stolen it. And if he’d given the car to you, probably he’d given the other gifts too.

Dwyer thought probably the police would see through Metti’s story. Accusing a woman of stealing from him. Former cleaning-woman. As a story, it was suspicious. Also they wouldn’t be inclined to take Metti’s side, rich guy living by himself, divorced, in the fancy high-rise by the river, bringing women home. They’d know the type.

Before Dwyer you stand meek, humbled. It is flattering to the man, how humbled you are, a girl (at one time) sexually attractive enough to have provoked a man like Orlando Metti to give her expensive gifts, and God knows how much in tips.

You are not so attractive now, you understand. Stunned by the accusation that you are a thief. Stammering as you tried to defend yourself. With sluttish haste you’d dressed that morning, thrown on soiled T-shirt, jeans. Not a thought of a shower. Smelling of guilt. Rank underarms. Coldly Dwyer stares at you, face, breasts, belly, hips, legs. Feet. And raising his eyes again, in slow male assessment finding you lacking.

Saying meanly that the police might not like you, either. Figuring you were taking money from the customer for sex which makes you, in some eyes, a hooker.

This opprobrium you accept, it is your due. Taking money from a man, any man, even if earned, is a kind of hooking. You will not contest this.

Dwyer says the police aren’t stupid, they’ll see through Metti’s story. But still, they might bring you in for questioning. He pauses, savoring this possibility.