Daniel's face hovered at the edge of the screen, flushed and sweating. "Are you getting a good look?"
I stared at the bright red For Sale sign planted in the front yard. The wooden post cut right through the center of the hydrangeas I had planted five years ago.
Daniel flipped the camera back to the living room interior.
Behind him, Sara dragged my old cherry-wood coffee table toward the front hall. The heavy wooden legs scraped violently across the polished hardwood floor, leaving deep, jagged scratches in the varnish. She grunted, shoving the piece against the wall next to a stack of cardboard moving boxes.
"Careful," I said. "I bought that table."
"It's going to the curb," Daniel replied. He walked toward the kitchen, panning the camera across the empty space. "We need to stage the rooms. Buyers want modern, clean lines. Not heavy junk from twenty years ago."
"You are selling the house," I stated. My tone stayed completely flat.
"I have to." He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers pressing hard into the skin. "My tenure salary is good, but I can't carry two mortgages. The bakery loan is eating us alive this quarter. Equipment repairs, rent hikes. We need the equity from this place just to stay afloat."
Two mortgages.
He just handed me his financial vulnerability on a silver platter. He was drowning in debt for her.
"So you kick me out, put Sara in, and now you have to sell because you can't afford her business."
"I didn't kick you out," he snapped, his nostrils flaring. "You chose to leave when you couldn't handle reality. You walked out on this family. And now you're throwing a tantrum at your office."
Sara appeared in the background again. She grabbed the embroidered cushions off the vintage armchair I used to rock Caleb in. She tossed them onto the floor like garbage, kicking one out of her way to make room for another box.
"Stop making trouble at work, Mara," Daniel demanded. He leaned closer to his phone, his eyes narrowing into a harsh glare. "Just approve Sara's file so we can move on with the sale. You are stalling her citizenship out of pure spite."
"You think selling the house solves your problems," I said.
"It liquidates the asset," Daniel shot back. "We clear the bakery debt, and Caleb gets a clean slate to manage the new location. Everyone wins. As long as you do your job."
I watched Sara huffing, shoving the armchair against the front door. A framed photo of Caleb's middle school graduation fell off the side table, the glass cracking against the floorboards. Neither of them noticed.
"Daniel," I said, dropping my voice to a quiet, steady pitch. "When you transferred the deed to include Sara last year, did you forge my signature?"
He froze. The camera shook as his grip tightened on his phone. "What?"
"Did I sign any documents authorizing the transfer of that property?"
"I am the primary earner," he argued, his voice rising in defense. "I paid the mortgage for the last twelve years. My accountant handled the paperwork."
"You paid it after I covered the down payment," I corrected him. "Forty thousand dollars. From mortgaging my pre-marital apartment. I also paid the first five years of monthly installments while you sat in a university library."
"That was eighteen years ago!"
"The origin of funds doesn't expire. And if I didn't sign a quitclaim deed, your title transfer is fraudulent."
Daniel's face turned a mottled red. The arrogance drained from his expression, replaced by a sudden, sharp panic.
"You wouldn't dare interfere with this sale," he warned.
"Enjoy staging my heavy junk," I said.
I tapped the red end-call button. The screen went black.
I set the phone on the mattress. My pulse thumped against my ribs, steady and hard.
I reached for my work laptop resting on the small desk in the corner of my rented room. The metal casing felt cold under my fingers. I flipped the screen open and logged into the USCIS secure portal.
The database loaded slowly. I typed in Sara Cole's alien registration number.
Her digital file populated on the screen.
A digital clock at the top of the interface flashed in bold black numbers.
Time remaining to adjudicate: 30 Days.
Federal law required a decision within a month of the interview. Daniel knew that. He thought he could bully me into a rubber-stamp approval before the deadline hit. If I didn't issue a decision, the system would automatically escalate the file to a supervisor.
I clicked into the secondary evidence folder. The forged character reference from Caleb sat right at the top. I already had enough to deny her application based on fraud.
But a simple denial wouldn't stop Daniel from selling my house. He would just file an appeal, drag it through the courts, and use the liquid cash from the sale to fund his lawyers.
I needed something permanent. Something that shattered her legal standing entirely.
I opened the historical background tab.
The screen lagged for a second, a spinning blue circle replacing my cursor.
Then, a bright red alert banner flashed across the top of the monitor.
WARNING: Conflicting Sworn Statements Detected.
I leaned closer to the screen. My eyes tracked the automated system flag.
It linked to an archived file from ten years ago. An asylum petition.
I clicked the hyperlink. The old scanned document opened.
It was a formal plea for political asylum. I scrolled down to the typed narrative section.
Applicant claims immediate family is deceased. Applicant states returning to home country will result in certain death.
I stared at the black text.
Just three hours ago, she stood at my window, crying real tears, claiming she needed citizenship to visit her sick mother back home.
There, under penalty of perjury, Sara Cole had submitted a sworn affidavit that severely contradicted every single word she said in today's interview.
