Chapter 26
title: "The USCIS Recording" wordCount: 2584
Officer Mendez's finger hovers over the play button on her laptop, and Nora already knows—from the way Daniel's gone completely still beside her—that whatever's on that recording will end everything.
"Before I play this," Mendez says, "I need to confirm you're both willing to listen without legal counsel present."
"We don't need a lawyer to hear evidence," Daniel says. His voice is flat. Dead.
Mendez clicks play.
Static crackles through the laptop's tinny speakers. Then Nora's own voice fills the cramped interview room, and her stomach turns to ice.
"—can't keep doing this. Pretending we're something we're not."
That's her. From three weeks ago, maybe four. She remembers this conversation. Daniel's apartment, late at night, after they'd spent the entire day rehearsing their immigration interview answers until the lies felt like truth.
Daniel's voice comes through next, quieter but clear. "We agreed to the arrangement. Both of us."
"The arrangement," her recorded self says, bitter. "God, we can't even call it what it is. A green card marriage. Fraud."
The word hangs in the air like smoke.
Mendez stops the recording. "There's forty-seven minutes more. Would you like to hear it, or should I summarize?"
Forty-seven minutes. Nora's hands are shaking. She presses them flat against her thighs, but the tremor moves up her arms, into her shoulders.
"Who submitted this?" Daniel asks.
"Anonymous tip. Came through our fraud hotline two days ago." Mendez leans back in her chair. The fluorescent lights overhead make her look tired, older than she probably is. "The recording was made in your apartment, Mr. Park. We've verified the audio signature matches the ambient noise profile from your address."
Daniel's apartment. Where they'd felt safe. Where Nora had let herself believe, just for a few stolen hours, that maybe the arrangement could become something real.
"Someone bugged my home," Daniel says.
"That's a matter for local law enforcement." Mendez closes her laptop with a soft click. "My concern is immigration fraud. And this recording provides clear evidence that your marriage was entered into for the sole purpose of evading immigration law."
The jade bracelet on Nora's wrist feels too tight. She twists it, once, twice. Her grandmother's voice echoes in her head: When you can't change the storm, change how you sail.
"What happens now?" The words come out steadier than she expected.
"I'm recommending denial of your I-485 application. You'll receive a formal notice within ten business days. After that, you'll have thirty days to voluntarily depart the United States, or we'll begin removal proceedings."
Removal proceedings. Deportation. The words are clinical, sanitized, but they mean the same thing: Nora will lose everything she's built here. The catering business she's barely started. The apartment she can't actually afford. The life she's been desperately trying to construct from the rubble of her parents' bankruptcy.
"We have our final interview scheduled," Daniel says. "In forty-eight hours."
"I'm aware." Mendez's expression doesn't change. "You're welcome to attend, but I should be clear—this recording significantly impacts your case. Unless you have compelling evidence that your marriage is genuine, the outcome is predetermined."
Genuine. Nora almost laughs. She's not sure she knows what genuine means anymore, not after weeks of rehearsed answers and calculated touches and lying so constantly she's forgotten how to tell the truth.
"Can we have a moment?" Daniel asks. "Alone?"
Mendez stands. "Five minutes. I'll be right outside."
The door clicks shut behind her.
Silence fills the room like water, rising, drowning. Nora counts the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.
"Say something," Daniel says.
"What do you want me to say?" She's still counting tiles. Forty-one. Forty-two. "That I'm surprised? That I didn't see this coming?"
"Nora—"
"Someone recorded us." She finally looks at him. His face is pale, jaw tight. "In your apartment. Where we were supposed to be safe."
"I know."
"Do you?" The anger surprises her, hot and sudden. "Because you don't look shocked. You look—" She stops. Studies his expression more carefully. The way he won't quite meet her eyes. The tension in his shoulders that's not surprise but something else. Something like guilt. "You knew."
"I didn't know about the recording—"
"But you suspected something." Her voice is rising. She doesn't care. "Didn't you?"
He goes completely silent. That's how she knows she's right.
"When?" she asks.
"After Richard died. James came to the apartment to collect some of Richard's things. He was alone in the living room for maybe ten minutes while I was in the bedroom." Daniel's hands are fisted on his thighs. "I thought about it later. How he'd been so insistent about coming over. How he'd asked weird questions about our daily routine."
"And you didn't tell me."
"I wasn't sure. I didn't want to worry you over something that might be nothing."
"Might be nothing." Nora stands. The chair scrapes against the linoleum floor, too loud in the small room. "Someone was listening to us, Daniel. Recording our private conversations. And you thought that might be nothing?"
"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I was wrong, I'd just be adding more stress to an already impossible situation."
"So you decided for me. Again." She's pacing now, three steps to the wall, turn, three steps back. "You keep doing that. Making decisions about what I should or shouldn't know. What I can or can't handle."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" She stops in front of him. "You paid for my apartment without telling me. You've been managing my business finances without asking. And now you suspected surveillance but kept it to yourself because you didn't want to worry me. Like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting."
"You're not fragile." His voice is quiet. "You're the strongest person I know."
"Then stop treating me like I'm going to break."
The door opens. Mendez steps back inside, and the moment shatters.
"Time's up," she says. "Do you need anything else from me, or are we done here?"
Done. Such a small word for something so final.
"We're done," Nora says.
The parking lot is nearly empty at seven in the morning. Nora walks toward Daniel's car, her footsteps echoing off the concrete. The sun is just starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange that feel obscene in their beauty. The world shouldn't look this lovely when everything is ending.
Daniel unlocks the car. They both get in. Neither of them speaks.
He starts the engine. Pulls out of the parking space. They're halfway to the exit when Nora says, "Take me to Priya's."
"Your apartment is closer."
"I don't want to go to my apartment." She's looking out the window, watching the city wake up. A woman walking three dogs. A man in scrubs heading into the hospital across the street. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that Nora's entire existence is collapsing. "I need space to think."
"Okay." He changes lanes, heading toward Priya's neighborhood instead. "Okay so—" He stops. Clears his throat. "We need to talk about the interview."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Nora—"
"They have a recording of us admitting to fraud, Daniel. It's over."
"Mendez said unless we have compelling evidence. Maybe if we—"
"If we what?" She turns to look at him now. "Lie more convincingly? Perform better? I'm tired of lying. I'm tired of pretending. I'm just—" The word catches in her throat. "I'm tired."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Did you eat?"
The question is so unexpected, so perfectly Daniel, that she almost laughs. Almost.
"No," she says. "I didn't eat."
"There's a bagel place near Priya's apartment. We could—"
"I don't want a bagel." Her voice comes out sharper than she intended. "I want to understand how we got here. How everything went so wrong so fast."
"James planted the bugs," Daniel says. "Probably the day he came to collect Richard's things. He must have been working with someone, or maybe he was planning to use the recordings as leverage for something. We'll never know now."
"Because he's dead."
"Because he's dead."
They're stopped at a red light. A cyclist passes in front of them, messenger bag bouncing against their back. The light turns green. Daniel doesn't move.
"The car behind us is honking," Nora says.
He drives.
"I should have told you," he says after another block. "About my suspicions. You're right—I keep making decisions for you, and that's not fair. I just—" He stops at another red light. "I can handle it. That's what I kept telling myself. I can handle the uncertainty, the worry, the fear. I don't need to burden you with it too."
"That's not how partnerships work."
"I know." His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I'm learning that. Slowly. Badly."
"We're not partners, though." The words taste bitter. "We're two people who made a business arrangement that went sideways."
"Is that really what you think?"
She doesn't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth is she doesn't know what they are anymore. The lines between performance and reality have blurred so completely she can't find them.
They pull up in front of Priya's building. Daniel puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine.
"I'll wait," he says. "Make sure you get inside okay."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
She gets out of the car. Walks to the building entrance. Presses the buzzer for Priya's apartment.
"It's me," she says when Priya answers.
The door clicks open. Nora glances back at Daniel's car. He's still there, watching. She raises one hand in a wave that feels like goodbye, then steps inside.
Priya's apartment smells like coffee and something baking—probably the sourdough starter Priya's been obsessively maintaining for the past month. Nora follows the scent to the kitchen, where Priya is standing at the counter in pajama pants and an oversized MIT sweatshirt, kneading dough with the focused intensity she usually reserves for debugging code.
"You look like hell," Priya says without looking up.
"Good morning to you too."
"Coffee's fresh. Mugs are in the usual place." Priya folds the dough over itself, presses down with the heels of her hands. "You want to talk about it, or should I just assume the USCIS meeting went badly?"
Nora pours herself coffee. Takes a sip. It's too hot and burns her tongue, but the pain feels grounding. Real.
"They have a recording," she says. "Of me and Daniel discussing the arrangement. Admitting it's fraud."
Priya's hands still on the dough. "Shit."
"James bugged Daniel's apartment. Probably weeks ago. Everything we said, everything we did—" Her voice cracks. She takes another sip of coffee to cover it. "Someone was listening."
"That's—" Priya abandons the dough, wipes her hands on a towel. "That's so violating. Nora, I'm sorry."
"Daniel suspected it. After Richard died. He didn't tell me."
"Of course he didn't." Priya's voice is dry. "Because Daniel Park handles everything himself. God forbid he actually communicate like a normal human being."
"He was trying to protect me."
"Was he? Or was he trying to control the situation?" Priya leans against the counter, arms crossed. "There's a difference."
"I don't know anymore." Nora sets down her mug. Her hands are shaking again. "I don't know anything anymore. What's real, what's performance, what I actually feel versus what I think I should feel—"
"Okay so let's just—" Priya stops. Smiles slightly. "Sorry. I've been spending too much time with you. I'm picking up your verbal tics."
Despite everything, Nora almost laughs.
"The guest room is yours for as long as you need it," Priya says. "No questions asked. But I do have one question now, and you don't have to answer it if you don't want to."
"What?"
"Are you running from the situation, or are you running from Daniel?"
The question lands like a punch. Nora opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I don't know," she finally says.
"Okay. That's honest, at least." Priya picks up the dough again, starts kneading. "For what it's worth, I think you're allowed to be angry at him. He fucked up. Multiple times. But I also think—" She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "I think you're scared of how much you actually care about him. And that's scarier than deportation, right? Because deportation is something that happens to you. But caring about someone? That's a choice. That's vulnerable."
"I can't think about that right now." Nora's voice is barely above a whisper. "I have forty-eight hours before the final interview. Forty-eight hours to decide if I'm going to show up and lie one more time, knowing it won't matter. Knowing I'm going to lose anyway."
"So don't lie."
"What?"
"Don't lie." Priya shapes the dough into a ball, places it in a bowl, covers it with a damp towel. "Go to the interview. Tell the truth. All of it. How the arrangement started, how it changed, what you actually feel now. Maybe it won't save your case, but at least you'll know you were honest at the end."
"That's terrifying."
"Yeah." Priya washes her hands, dries them on the towel. "But you're good at terrifying. You moved to a new country with nothing. You started a business from scratch. You married a man you barely knew to save your future. You're the bravest person I know, Nora. Don't forget that now."
Nora's throat is tight. She blinks hard, willing herself not to cry. "I need to sleep. I haven't slept in—I don't even know how long."
"Guest room. Clean sheets. I'll wake you up for lunch."
"Thank you." Nora hugs her, quick and fierce. "For everything."
"That's what best friends are for." Priya squeezes back. "Now go. Sleep. We'll figure out the rest later."
The guest room is small but comfortable, with a double bed and a window that looks out onto the street. Nora closes the blinds, shutting out the morning light, and collapses onto the bed fully clothed. She should shower. Should change. Should do something productive with the nervous energy thrumming through her body.
Instead, she stares at the ceiling and counts her breaths. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket.
She ignores it.
It buzzes again.
And again.
Finally, she pulls it out. Three texts from Daniel, all sent in the last five minutes.
The FBI is at my apartment. They found the listening devices.
Six of them. Living room, bedroom, kitchen.
James must have planted them all at once. They're taking them as evidence.
Six devices. Six different places where she'd thought she was safe, where she'd let her guard down, where she'd been herself instead of the carefully constructed version she showed the world.
Her phone buzzes again. Another text from Daniel.
I'm sorry. For all of it. For not telling you. For making decisions without you. For treating you like a problem to solve instead of a person.
She reads the message three times. Her thumb hovers over the reply field, but she doesn't know what to say. Sorry doesn't fix this. Sorry doesn't change the fact that in forty-eight hours, she'll sit across from Officer Mendez and watch her entire future crumble.
Another buzz. Not a text this time—a calendar reminder.
USCIS Final Interview - 48 hours
And below it, a new text from Daniel appears.
I'll go alone if you want. You don't have to do this.
Her thumb hovers over the reply field.