“In the piece,” said the publicist, “you say Courtney confronted this guy, really scared the shit out of him. It’s a hilarious moment, perfectly written.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“But Courtney doesn’t remember it going down like that.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “What does she say?”

“Just that she talked to you about the guy, but that she never said a word to him.”

“I don’t understand. Does she not like it?”

“No, she does. We all do. It’s just, she doesn’t remember it like that, so she was wondering if you could—”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You have fact-checkers and stuff, yeah?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I can have my notes photocopied—”

“No, that’s alright, I trust you.” She yawned. “Between you and me, I’m just crossing off these queries she gave me. It’s a whole list. She reads everything, you know, watches everything.”

“I understand.”

“Thanks, Whitney. Really great piece.”

I remember poring over my notes, panicked, and the weird thing was that I couldn’t find the fabrications. I thought back on the scene I’d written and the memory seemed to wobble. It was like the creep had retreated to a hidden position, but still subverted everything.

“This is the best thing ever written on Courtney Love,” says the journalist from Vice.

“Oh, that,” I want to tell her, handing back the page. “I made that up.”

And as I’d learn, a public lie is never really over.

2.

By the time I got back to New York, I had a message from Baker Watt. Good news, he said. I’d been granted an interview with Dr. Eva Kriss. She’d be in New York next week for meetings with Rubicon’s parent company.

“I’m really excited for you to meet her,” he said on the voice mail. “She’s got the brains to answer anything.”

I arrived at the Bystander office with an excitement that made me impatient. The story meeting was scheduled for tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait. I knocked on the door of Mort’s office and he called me in.

A man I didn’t recognize was sitting across from him.

“This is Lane Porter,” said Mort, “our new fact-checker.”

When he stood up, Lane rose to about my chin, with bushy orange hair and a dense orange beard. He wore a cherry-red bow tie and navy blazer, and his blond lashes fluttered as he offered a small, soft hand.

“Lane comes to us from Vanity Fair,” Mort said, “very highly recommended.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“It’s an honor,” said Lane. “I’ve admired your work for a long time.”

“That’s very gratifying.”

“We were just wrapping up here,” Mort said, and he looked to Lane. “Got everything you need?”

“I think so.”