Joel Fagano’s body came to us with a thumb drive in his pocket, and on it was financial software Lucy claimed was capable of fraud massive enough to undermine the entire U.S. banking system. I remember her saying the point was to make it appear money was present or accounted for, and then one day you wake up and realize you have nothing left. You’re told you spent it all and to prove it you’re shown a general ledger also generated by the fraudulent software.

What if we go to war, pull the plug, make life-and-death decisions based on data fiction?

Lucy said the term is trending on the Undernet where users are chatting about whether it’s possible anymore to be sure what’s real. How do we know what to trust in this day and age? It’s not a new concern for me. I never accept anything as reliable unless I have empirical proof. This is my nature and it’s also my training. The Greek root of the word autopsy is autopsi, which means to see for oneself, to look, to touch, hear and smell. I can’t exactly do that in cyberspace, and when every detail of our lives and businesses is turned into an electronic symbol it’s both convenient and extremely dangerous.

Technology made everything better for a while and now it seems life is circling back around to the dark ages. Digital communication has begun to make me feel I’m moving faster than ever even as I lose the trusted navigational equipment I was born with. My own eyes. My own ears. My own sense of touch. I miss paper and pen. I miss face-to-face conversations. I worry we’re on a collision course with doubt and delusion on a galactic scale.

What if we are finally put in a position of distrusting everything managed by computers? That would include medical charts, emergency services, blood types, health histories, professional directories, fingerprints, DNA, money wires, financial information, background checks and even personal text messages and e-mails. What if we can’t believe anything anymore?

“Where were you at the exact time your aunt was shot on June fifteenth?” Donoghue relentlessly questions Lucy.

“I was flying my helicopter from Morris County, New Jersey. Headed back here,” she says.

“The attack occurred at what time?” Donoghue asks me.

“About two-forty-five in the afternoon.”

“You were in the air at that exact time?” She directs this at Lucy.

“By then the helicopter was back in the hangar. I was in my car.”

“Which car?”

“I think I was in my Ferrari FF that day. I may have run a few errands on my way home. I don’t remember what I did every minute.”

“It’s the I don’t remember part that’s a problem,” Donoghue says. “Janet? Do you know what Lucy was doing on that day?”