“Let me go,” Bomi cries.

“Nope. You’re coming with us.” I march her down the street to the hanwoo restaurant. Yujun says something to the host, and in short order, we’re shown to a table tucked around a corner.

“There are no private rooms here,” Yujun murmurs. “There are other restaurants—”

“This is fine.” I push Bomi into the chair in the very corner and sit down next to her, blocking her exit. I do not want to waste the time finding another restaurant, making another reservation, when I have Bomi right here.

“How long were you going to carry this on?” I confront her.

“You would not understand.”

“Explain it to me. I have all night.” I am so enraged that my vision blurs and Bomi becomes a hazy blob. I don’t believe in violence, but I could punch her in the face and not feel bad about it.

“Is it too much for me to ask what’s going on here?” Ahn Sangki inquires. “I want to know because it will impact how much soju I order. Is this a four-bottle or fourteen-bottle night?”

“I wish to know as well, Kim Bomi-ssi,” Yujun demands in a hard voice I’ve never heard him use. “I thought you were in America for the last six months doing outreach on behalf of IF Group. That is what it states in your personnel file.”

Boyoung or Bomi or whatever her name’s mouth is glued shut.

“I’m thinking fourteen. I’ll be right back.” Ahn Sangki excuses himself from the table. None of us pays any attention.

“She was in America,” I answer. “She was in Iowa, studying at my local college, in a new cultural studies program. Is there even a cultural studies program?” I never checked. Why would I?

Bomi looks away. I clench my fingers into fists. “Your name is Bomi and not Boyoung? Is there anything you didn’t lie about?”

Before she can answer, Ahn Sangki appears with the soju. Bomi leaps forward, grabs a bottle and, ignoring all the rules, pours her own drink. She tosses it back and pours another. And then another.

“Should I stop her?” he asks, looking to Yujun and then me.

“Nope.” Maybe the booze will loosen Bomi’s tongue.

Yujun orders food. The waiter brings out bowls of banchan, which everyone but Ahn Sangki ignores, but after a while even he grows disinterested in the food. Bomi opens the second bottle.

Ahn Sangki, tired of waiting, reaches out and swipes the liquor away. “Speak,” he orders.

Bomi hangs her head, the black silk curtain of her hair hiding her face. “I went to America because Choi Wansu was not receiving her reports about you.”

“Not receiving her reports . . .” I stop and horror almost floors me. The only person who would be in a position to send her reports is Ellen.

“Yes, that’s right.” Bomi’s face pops up and her chin comes out. “Your American mother is to send Choi Wansu a report on your activities every month, but for six months there was nothing, so Sajangnim sent me.” She taps her chest. “She trusted me with this important task. I, who am nothing, was someone Choi Wansu believed in. I’m sorry, Hara, that I lied to you. I do like you. I am your friend.” She grabs my cold hand. “Please, I told Choi Wansu nothing that you would be ashamed of.”