Yes, she had on the cab ride over. And though she would avoid saying the words to his face, Matt was right. It was going to be huge. Incontrovertible evidence of the First Lady getting intimate with a very handsome—and unidentified—man. It was black-and-white surveillance footage in three parts. The first part showed the First Lady and Mystery Hunk sitting on a couch eating popcorn together. The second was the two of them in a bedroom, FLOTUS wearing only a bathrobe receiving a kiss on the forehead from Mystery Hunk before allowing him to hug her, tenderly. The last part of the tape showed two figures throwing handfuls of leaves at one another in a garden. Notably there was no mole on the First Lady’s neck in any of the shots. This video was new.

“They are so clearly doing it,” Matt said enthusiastically as the elevator reached their floor. “Days like this I fucking love the job.”

“I don’t know,” she said, leaving the elevator and walking fast down the hallway so he had to jog to keep up. “The video is surprising. Provocative. Train-wreck-un-look-away-able. But it’s not proof that the First Lady is doing it with someone else. There’s nothing explicitly sexual in it at all.”

“Great, go with that,” Matt said. “That should be your on-air posture. While everyone else is hyperventilating about FLOTUS the floozy and shouting sex, sex, sex, you can play Miss Goody Two-shoes, the voice of reason. No sex to see here,” he said, imitating her voice. They reached the big door marked Studio A. “It’s the one position I’m confident you can sell.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m simply suggesting you play to your strengths. The world’s last thirty-two-year-old virgin.”

“I am not—”

“Shhh, save it for the show,” he said, pushing her through the door.

Inside the studio, the air-conditioning hit her like a polar blast. A stagehand wearing an orange parka, ski hat, and gloves greeted her, his breath forming a fog cloud as he spoke. He ushered her toward a half-moon set surrounded by seven robotic cameras on wheels. There were two other production assistants, one wrapped in a Snuggie, the other wearing camouflage survival gear and snow boots.

Natalie found Heath Heatherton sitting behind his desk, bobbing his head to his Bose headphones like a prizefighter, studying a stack of blue notecards.

She stilled for a moment. This was the first time she’d seen ATN’s top anchor in the flesh.

“Natalie Savage! Welcome to Heath’s show,” he boomed, not bothering to remove his headphones. “Great job out there!”

She wasn’t sure to which “great job” he was referring but she smiled and said, “Thank you so much. A pleasure to be on with you,” as she allowed herself to be led to a stool behind the desk.