“You’re acting like the L.A. Times is as prurient as the National Enquirer,” I argue.

Annie says, “I’m going to ignore that comment because I know that you’re a good journalist and have respect for our venerable newspaper. I went to bat with my boss for more time and a higher budget on this one, no small feat given your past two swings and misses.” She leans forward. “But let’s say you don’t get that interview, can’t prove Sylvie is a total fake. I’ll still print the story without her, albeit buried in the Lifestyle section, but the people upstairs will take notice. So how do we salvage this so I don’t have to demote you to obits? We both know that’s a one-way street.”

She’s serious. A vise tightens around my skull. “I could try to find another trending female psychic?”

Annie snorts. “What about making the story more personal?”

I sit back. “As you pointed out, we’re a legit paper, not the Enquirer.”

“Legit papers allow their journalists to include personal stories where appropriate.” Annie reaches for the candy jar on her desk and digs out a yellow jellybean, pops it in her mouth. “You could tell your family story. Interview your mom. Share how much she’s spent on psychics over the years, how it impacted her . . . and you. Maybe even interview some of the assholes that took her money. It still wouldn’t be a front-page story, but it would show my boss that you pivoted, salvaged what you could, and were willing to take a personal hit.”

Clearly I’d had one scotch too many after we went to Disneyland together. I rarely talk about my dad’s death or my mom’s obsession with psychics, mediums, clairvoyants, and whacked-out astrologers in her twenty-plus-year pursuit to connect with Dad. “I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“Why not?” Annie presses.

“Because the focus of this article is the truth about psychics and mediums. It’s not about me, or my dad’s death, or my mother’s preoccupation. And how is anyone going to believe me if I’m so clearly biased?” I reach for the candy jar, take a handful of jellybeans, then toss the green ones back in.

“Gross.”

“I didn’t lick them.”

Annie makes a face. “Okay then.” She picks up the spinner again. “How’s life? You getting laid?”

I want to talk more about the exposé but let it go for the moment. The only person I know with less of a social life than me is Annie. A big Friday night for her is spent outlining her next book. It’s why she was game to play my dying wife and why we both drank too much after we’d folded up the wheelchair but didn’t want to head home to our empty apartments. That’s not to say we have a close relationship, she’s still my boss, just that we recognize the same empty space in each other.

I wag a finger in her direction. “I’ll remind you that I’m the last one of us to have a girlfriend.”