The SUV outside had disappeared by morning, but Maya knew better than to believe it was over.
They had seen her.
And more importantly, she had seen them.
---
The blog now had over 200,000 views.
Messages flooded in:
Survivors of similar "homes" sharing stories.
People who remembered her brother's laughter.
Even an anonymous email from someone claiming to have worked inside the Foundation's security division.
"You're not wrong, Maya.
But it's bigger than just your father.
They're all connected.
Watch your back."
Jordan read it twice.
"They're starting to fracture," he said. "And when cracks form—truth leaks."
---
Later that day, Zara called with urgency in her voice.
"I have something. There's a former financial auditor who used to work for the Foundation. He's willing to talk, but only in person. He says he has records—offshore accounts, misused donations, fake orphanage funding."
Maya felt a chill. "Where do we meet him?"
"Osogbo," Zara replied. "Tonight."
Jordan raised an eyebrow. "That's three hours from here. We'll need to move fast."
Maya's voice was steady. "Pack everything. We might not come back the same."
---
The drive was quiet, filled with low music and long glances.
Maya stared out the window, memories crashing like waves—her brother's voice, the fire, her years locked away.
But she no longer felt like that broken girl searching for pieces.
She felt like a sword being forged in flame.
---
They met the auditor—Mr. Nwachukwu—in a nondescript hotel room.
He was nervous. Thin. Eyes darting to every shadow.
He slid a folder across the table. Inside:
Wire transfers from a shell company linked to Adedeji Foundation to private accounts in Switzerland.
Donor falsification documents.
Fake invoices and padded contracts.
A list of names—powerful ones.
But Maya froze at the last page.
It was a security report.
Her name.
Her brother's.
Jordan's.
Even Zara's.
At the bottom: "Priority Threats to Asset Protection."
Jordan's jaw clenched. "They've been tracking us."
Mr. Nwachukwu whispered, "They know who's speaking. They're just waiting to silence all of you at once."
Maya's voice didn't shake.
"They waited too long."
---
They sent everything to Zara's encrypted drive and left under cover of night.
But halfway down the road, Jordan slammed the brakes.
A black vehicle blocked the road.
Another behind them.
Lights off.
No license plates.
Jordan looked at Maya. "Plan B?"
She reached under the seat for the emergency bag they'd packed weeks ago—phones, cash, burner SIMs, documents.
Jordan turned to her and smiled, almost gently. "You ready?"
Maya looked him dead in the eye.
"I was born ready. They just never noticed."
---
They ditched the car in a nearby forest and hiked through thick brush until dawn, eventually catching a bike taxi into a local town.
By noon, they were in a safehouse Zara had prepared "just in case."
The files were uploaded. The story would publish tomorrow.
But Maya wasn't done yet.
She stood on the rooftop of the safehouse, watching the sun rise over unfamiliar rooftops.
Then she took a deep breath and recorded a video.
No filters.
No background music.
Just her.
---
"My name is Maya Adedeji.
I am not a statistic.
I am not a scandal.
I am not your shame.
I am your reckoning."
---
She hit upload.
And the world caught fire.