Two weeks later, the charred bones of my childhood home were still smoldering in my nightmares. But out here at the graveyard, the world was quiet — too quiet. No flames. No shouts. Just the wind and the cold marble under my palm.
"They tried to bury you," I whispered. "But you planted seeds they can't kill."
Beside me, Sophia shivered in her wheelchair. She looked so small wrapped in Emily's old coat, a wool hat pulled low to hide the healing cut on her temple. She squeezed my hand, and I squeezed back. That was all we could do — hold on.
A car door slammed behind us. I didn't have to turn to know it was Emily. She always made an entrance, even when she was trying to sneak.
She leaned against her battered hatchback, arms folded tight, phone buzzing nonstop with calls she ignored. "Time to go, Nina. Reporters are circling like vultures. And cops want more statements."
I traced the engraved letters — Josephine Orakwue. Beloved Wife and Mother.
I wanted to believe she could hear me. That she'd know I kept my promise.
But the truth felt heavier than the dirt over her casket.
We didn't say a word on the ride back to the motel. The sky was a cold, unbroken blue — too bright, like the world was mocking us with how normal everything looked.
A family crossed the street holding balloons. A kid waved at us. I waved back, but my hand felt like it belonged to someone else.
At the motel, Sophia braced herself against Emily's arm as she lifted her from the car to the wheelchair. Her wince made my gut twist. She'd taken the worst of it that night in the study — tied up like a lamb for slaughter.
Inside, the room smelled like stale coffee and industrial soap. The floral wallpaper was peeling in places. The bedsheets were scratchy and too thin for the chill that crept under the door.
I dumped my bag on the bed, the battered journal thumping out a final truth I wasn't ready to face.
Emily dropped onto the other bed, scrolling through headlines. "FALLEN FAMILY EMPIRE" — "DAUGHTER EXPOSES FATHER'S CRIMES" — my name was everywhere.
I was the girl who burned her legacy to the ground.
"You ever gonna do an interview?" Emily asked, voice flat. "They're offering money, you know. Big money."
"I didn't do this for money," I snapped. Too sharp. But I didn't care. She shrugged and went back to scrolling.
Sophia turned her chair toward me, eyes wide and dark. "So… what now, Nina?"
I sat cross-legged on the bed, the journal spread open like a holy book no one else could read.
The edges were scorched. The pages smelled faintly of smoke, ink warped from heat and time.
Some lines were so faint I had to hold them to the lamp just to see the ghosts of her words.
"They think this is over," I murmured.
Emily looked up. "Isn't it? Mirabel's gone. Your father's behind bars. What more is there?"
Sophia's voice was a whisper. "You think the partner is real, don't you?"
My thumb brushed over a line of numbers scribbled in the margin — a code that didn't make sense when I was just a scared girl. Now it felt like a map my mother had drawn with her last breaths.
"She left this for me," I said. "She knew she'd never get to run it herself. Routing numbers. Bank IDs. Not just local — offshore."
Emily sat up straighter. "You're serious? You're gonna chase some ghost banker halfway across the world now?"
I flipped to the back of the journal. A photograph slipped out — I hadn't seen it before.
My mother, young, laughing at a garden party. My father beside her, trying to look like a husband instead of a liar. And in the background — a man I didn't know. His face half-turned. A glass of champagne in his hand, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
On the back, my mother's handwriting, shaky but deliberate: M.G. — White Orchid Trust.
Sophia leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Who the hell is M.G.?"
My pulse thundered in my ears. "I don't know yet. But this — White Orchid — it's the same trust that keeps popping up in the offshore accounts."
Emily frowned. "And what if you find him? What then? Burn down another house?"
I slammed the journal shut, the sound too loud in the quiet room. "If I have to."
Sophia flinched, her hand trembling as she lifted a bottle of painkillers to her lips. She hesitated.
"What if… what if you're just like her?" she asked. "What if chasing this is how she died?"
I wanted to scream. But I just stared at her.
"My mother didn't die because she was curious. She died because they made sure the truth stayed buried. I'm not letting that happen again."
Sophia's eyes filled with tears. She looked away, guilt carving lines into her bruised face.
Emily stood, pacing the length of the room. "Alright. So we chase this. How? You think the police care about your mother's old trust funds? They've closed the file. Everyone thinks you're a hero, Nina. Why open another wound?"
I dug in my bag, pulling out the battered SIM card I'd found hidden in my mother's jewelry box years ago. I'd thought it was junk. Now it felt like the missing key.
"She didn't trust Patel with this. Or the lawyer. Maybe this was meant for me, when I was old enough to understand."
I slipped it into the cheap burner phone I'd bought at a gas station. The screen flickered, struggling to wake up.
A single message waited there, timestamped days before my mother died.
Unknown Number: "R — Contact M.G. directly. Orchid is not secure. — V."
Sophia gasped. "Who's V?"
I swallowed. "Another breadcrumb."
I looked at them — the last two people I could trust. Emily, pacing like a caged cat. Sophia, broken but alive.
I held the journal, the SIM, the photo — all that was left of my mother's final fight.
"They thought they were the storm," I whispered. "But I'm the flood."
Outside, the sky stayed cloudless. No thunder. No rain to hide the truth anymore.
Just me — and the roots my mother made sure they'd never kill.