"Davis," I said, rising from my high-level USCIS Senior Officer chair. "Direct them to the waiting area by the observation glass."
"Right away, Officer Vance," Davis replied, hurrying out into the corridor.
I turned to Miller. "Bring the preliminary review file."
I walked out of my office. My black pumps struck the linoleum with sharp, rhythmic thuds. I stopped behind the one-way mirror overlooking the outer lobby. The glass allowed me to see everything in the sunlit waiting area while remaining completely hidden in the shadows of the corridor.
Mark stood near the reception desk. He reached out, his fingers gently adjusting a cream-colored Hermès silk scarf around Chloe's neck. He smoothed the fabric over her collarbone, a tender smile on his face.
The same smile he used to give me when I handed him my paycheck from the diner to pay for his textbooks.
Chloe leaned into his touch, giggling at something he whispered. She wore a tailored white blazer that probably cost more than my first car.
"They look quite comfortable," Miller noted, stepping up beside me with the manila folder.
"They just stole a one-point-two million dollar home," I replied, keeping my eyes on the glass.
Miller frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Fifteen years of my mortgage payments," I explained, my voice devoid of warmth. "The day he secured tenure last year, he forged my signature. He transferred the deed to the two of them. I found out yesterday."
Miller's jaw dropped. "He forged a property deed? You can press federal charges for that."
"I prefer to handle it my way," I said. "A court battle takes years. A deportation takes days."
Davis jogged up to us, slightly out of breath. "I placed them by the glass, just as you asked."
"What did Mark say at the front desk?" I asked.
"He demanded to see the regional director," Davis answered. "He said his fiancée's time is too valuable to wait in the standard queue."
"Did he mention his title?" I asked.
"Three times," Davis confirmed. "He even threatened to call a state senator if we didn't expedite her clearance."
I watched Mark pull out his phone, typing furiously. Chloe rested her head on his shoulder, acting the part of the fragile, dependent partner. She pointed at the slow-moving line of applicants, rolling her eyes. Mark kissed her forehead in response.
"Let's accommodate his rush," I said.
I looked down at the background check report in my hands. My manicured fingernail tapped against Chloe's printed photograph. Her smiling face mocked me from the page.
I picked up the wall-mounted intercom receiver next to the observation window. I pressed the red button connecting directly to the lobby security desk.
"Desk three, this is Senior Officer Vance," I instructed, my voice entirely flat.
"Go ahead, Officer Vance," the guard replied.
"Applicant Chloe Bennett, file US-8809. Pull her from the standard sequence. Escort her and her sponsor to the Special Review Interrogation Room immediately."
The guard's voice crackled through the speaker, laced with hesitation. "The basement level interrogation room, ma'am? That room is reserved for high-risk fraud and immediate detainment procedures."
"I am aware of the room's purpose," I stated.
"They don't have security clearance for that level," the guard argued mildly.
"I am granting them clearance. Execute the order." I slammed the receiver back onto its cradle.
Miller stared at me, his eyes wide. "You're taking the interview yourself?"
"I am the only officer with the authority to revoke a twelve-year-old financial dependency waiver," I reminded him. "Bring the original archive copy down to the basement. Do not let anyone else touch it."
"Yes, ma'am." Miller rushed off toward the records department.
Through the glass, I watched two armed security guards approach Mark and Chloe. Mark puffed out his chest, clearly annoyed by the interruption. He pointed a finger at the guard's chest, his mouth moving rapidly as he argued. The guard simply gestured toward the secure elevator bank, his hand resting on his utility belt.
Chloe gripped Mark's arm tighter, her smile faltering.
"Take over my afternoon appointments, Davis," I ordered.
"Consider it done," Davis said.
I turned away from the window. I headed for the staff elevator at the end of the hall.
The descent to the basement level took exactly forty seconds. The air down here felt cooler, stripped of the welcoming warmth designed for the upstairs civilian lobby. There were no comfortable chairs, no potted plants, no sunlight. Just fluorescent lights and thick concrete walls.
I swiped my security badge at the end of the corridor. The heavy steel door to the Special Review room slid open.
The space was barren. Gray walls, a single metal table bolted to the floor, and a high-backed leather chair reserved for the chief examiner. Two uncomfortable aluminum chairs sat on the opposite side. A camera with a blinking red light hung in the corner, recording every movement.
I walked to the head of the table. I smoothed the lapels of my dark blue uniform, making sure the gold senior officer bars sat perfectly straight. I pulled out the heavy leather chair and sat down.
I placed Chloe's preliminary review file directly in the center of the metal table. I unclipped the federal seal fountain pen from my pocket and laid it next to the folder. The silver emblem caught the harsh overhead light.
Then, I waited.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Mark's voice drifted through the thick walls, muffled but distinct.
"This is outrageous," Mark complained to the escorting guard. "I told the front desk we have a flight to catch. I'm going to have a serious conversation with the dean about this department's incompetence."
"Keep moving, sir," the guard ordered.
"Just let them do their little check, darling," Chloe said, her tone laced with artificial sweetness. "It's probably just a VIP room because you mentioned your title. They know who you are."
"They should have approved it at the front desk," Mark scoffed. "I don't have time for bureaucratic nonsense. My research grant depends on this European tour. If they delay us, I will sue the entire agency."
"Step inside," the guard commanded.
The electronic lock on the interrogation room door emitted a sharp, high-pitched beep.
The heavy steel door swung inward.
Mark stepped through the frame first, his chin raised, projecting the arrogant authority of a tenured professor. Chloe followed closely behind, her hand wrapped possessively around his bicep, her expensive silk scarf fluttering slightly from the movement.
"Listen to me," Mark snapped, looking at the far wall rather than the table. "I am Professor Mark Vance, and I demand to speak to whoever is in charge of this facility right now."
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the cold metal table.
"Take a seat, Professor."
Mark's head snapped toward the sound of my voice. His eyes locked onto my face. His gaze dropped to the gold bars on my shoulders, then to the federal seal on my chest, and finally to the thick file resting under my hands.
His jaw went slack as his polished leather shoes stopped dead on the concrete floor.
