The house looked exactly the same as the night my mother died — a grand white facade with a perfect lawn, windows glowing warm and soft, hiding the rot inside.
Emily pulled the car to a stop a block away. Rain drizzled down, beading on the windshield. "You sure about this?"
I clutched my mother's journal, the USB, the battered SIM card — the weight of everything they killed her for. "I was never more sure."
Emily touched my hand. "If you don't come back out in five minutes—"
"Burn the whole street down," I finished, forcing a tight smile. I slipped out into the rain, heart hammering against my ribs.
I crept around the side, slipping through the garden gate. The back door creaked open under my hand — the same door I used to sneak cookies from the kitchen as a kid. Funny how innocence dies in the same places you found it.
Voices drifted down the hallway — soft, menacing. I pushed the study door open.
They were waiting.
Mirabel sat in my father's chair, legs crossed, silk robe draped like a throne. My father paced behind her, eyes red, hands trembling. And Sophia — my oldest friend — was tied to the armchair, duct tape across her mouth, her eyes wild and begging.
"Nina." Mirabel's voice was sweet poison. "You came home."
"I didn't come for you." I dropped the journal and USB onto the desk. "I came for the truth."
My father stepped forward, voice oily and cold. "You think this will change anything? Those files mean nothing. You think anyone will believe the rantings of a dead woman and her ungrateful daughter?"
I hit PLAY on my phone. My mother's voice filled the room — raw, terrified, accusing. "You're killing me. Both of you. I know what you're doing…"
Mirabel's smile slipped. "Turn it off."
I raised the phone higher. "It's already everywhere. You can't bury it now."
Sophia struggled against the rope, muffled cries behind the tape. Mirabel rose from the chair, eyes glittering. "You think you've won? This family built you, Nina. You are nothing without us."
"I'm everything without you," I spat.
Mirabel pulled a gun from her robe pocket. My father's eyes darted to it, then back to me. "We can fix this, Nina. Hand it over. We can be a family again."
My laugh was broken glass. "Family? You killed her."
Mirabel took a step closer, gun steady. "Hand it over."
A crash — Sophia's chair tipped as she threw her weight against the bindings, knocking into Mirabel's legs. The gun swung wildly. I dove forward, wrestling for the barrel, my mother's voice echoing in my ears.
The lamp crashed to the floor, glass exploding, oil catching fire along the old curtains. Flames crawled up the walls, devouring the family portraits.
Mirabel shrieked as Sophia bit her hand, sending the gun skittering under the desk. My father lunged for me — I swung the chair into him, the impact cracking my wrist. He fell back, face twisted in rage.
Smoke filled the study, black and choking. The fire roared up the bookshelves — all those lies, all that poison, turning to ash.
I grabbed Sophia's bound wrists, tearing at the rope until her hands were free. She pulled off the tape, coughing, sobbing. "Nina — go. Please."
But I wasn't leaving her again. I hooked my arm under hers and dragged her toward the door. My father screamed behind me, but the ceiling cracked, beams splitting as the flames ate everything my mother ever hated.
Emily burst through the kitchen hallway like a battering ram, swinging a tire iron at one of my father's guards. She grabbed Sophia's other arm, yelling, "Move! Now!"
We stumbled out into the night, coughing, covered in soot. The house behind us blazed like a funeral pyre. Neighbors stood on their lawns, filming with their phones. Sirens howled closer.
Mirabel appeared in an upstairs window, silhouetted by flame — screaming my name, cursing me. A moment later, the roof caved in, swallowing her whole.
My father staggered out the front door, handcuffed by two officers who'd arrived with the fire trucks. He caught my eyes — the same eyes I'd inherited. They were empty now.
I held up the journal and the USB drive. "It's over."
And then the fire roared louder, drowning him out forever.
Two weeks later, I stood at my mother's grave, the charred remains of my childhood home behind me on the horizon. I placed a single white lily on the headstone — Josephine Orakwue. Beloved Wife and Mother.
"They tried to bury you," I whispered. "But you planted seeds they can't kill."
Beside me, Sophia sat in a wheelchair, her bandaged side hidden under a coat. She squeezed my hand, her eyes full of guilt — and something like peace.
Emily leaned against her car, phone buzzing with calls from journalists and lawyers. The world wanted answers now. They'd have to wait.
I tucked my mother's journal into my bag. The truth was out. My father and Mirabel's empire was in ashes. But somewhere out there, the anonymous partner who paid for all of it was still hiding — and I wasn't done.
I looked at the grave one last time. "Rest now, Mom. I'll handle the rest."
As we turned to go, Sophia asked, "What happens next?"
I smiled through my tears. "Whatever I want."