Chapter 24
Dad created the Harrison Student Justice Fund three days later.
Not as a public-relations stunt.
He almost named it after our family.
I stopped him.
“No.”
He looked offended.
“It’s our money.”
“That’s exactly why it shouldn’t have our name.”
Claire smiled.
“I like her.”
Dad glared at both of us.
“What should we call it?”
I thought of Mom’s letter.
Visibility.
Truth.
“Open Door Fund.”
Patricia nodded.
“Good.”
Dad agreed.
The fund would pay independent legal costs, counseling, education transfers, and record-clearing expenses for students harmed by Westbridge or related systems.
No nondisclosure agreements.
No requirement to praise Harrison.
No publicity consent.
That part mattered.
Victims didn’t owe us gratitude.
Jasmine joined the advisory group.
So did Elena’s mother.
Noah declined.
We respected that.
Maya said maybe later.
Also respected.
Westbridge remained closed.
Its board dissolved after several members resigned.
State investigators found additional financial violations.
Mercer was charged with fraud, obstruction, falsifying records, and conspiracy-related offenses.
Dalton faced kidnapping, unlawful confinement, evidence tampering, and conspiracy charges.
Oliver faced kidnapping, intimidation, assault-related charges, conspiracy, and witness tampering.
Richard faced fraud, conspiracy, obstruction, and kidnapping-related charges.
Victor faced the largest case.
Fraud.
Extortion.
Kidnapping conspiracy.
Data crimes.
Obstruction.
Blackmail.
Potential charges tied to Grandfather’s death remained under review.
It still wasn’t enough emotionally.
No list ever was.
Maya had lost eighteen months.
Jasmine had lost trust in her parents.
Noah had spent years hiding.
Elena’s family nearly collapsed financially.
You couldn’t sentence someone to give those things back.
One afternoon, Maya asked to meet me.
She was staying with Tessa at a rehabilitation center focused on trauma recovery.
I went with Dad but entered alone.
Maya sat in a garden.
She looked healthier than in the first images after rescue.
Still thin.
Still cautious.
But present.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
I sat across from her.
For a moment, neither of us knew what to say.
Finally she smiled.
“You’re taller than I expected.”
“You’re more alive than I expected.”
My eyes widened.
“That sounded terrible.”
She laughed.
A real laugh.
“It did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Her smile faded.
“People keep talking to me like I’m made of glass.”
“I can insult you if helpful.”
“Please.”
We sat quietly.
Then she asked, “Why did you keep digging?”
I thought about it.
“Because at first I was angry about noodles.”
She smiled.
“Reasonable.”
“Then I realized the adults around us counted on everyone caring only about their own pain.”
Maya looked down.
“That’s true.”
“If I stopped when Dad fixed my problem, nothing else would change.”
She nodded.
“That happened before.”
“What?”
“Rich families would complain when their own kid got hurt.”
I swallowed.
“And then?”
“They’d get an apology, donation, private settlement.”
“Nothing systemic.”
“Exactly.”
Mom’s letter came back to me.
Make everything visible.
“Maya, do you want your story public?”
Her body stiffened.
“No.”
“Then it won’t be.”
She looked surprised.
“What?”
“I asked because everyone keeps saying transparency is the answer.”
“It is.”
“But not if transparency means taking your privacy too.”
Maya stared at me.
Then began crying.
“I thought your dad’s company would want me on television.”
“No.”
“Lawyers asked if I’d consider a statement.”
“You can say no.”
“I did.”
“Then that’s the answer.”
She wiped her face.
“Thank you.”
We talked for nearly two hours.
Not only about Westbridge.
Music.
College.
Her father.
My mother.
She wanted to study forensic accounting someday.
I laughed.
“Of course.”
“What?”
“You survived a fraud conspiracy and chose accounting.”
“I have unfinished business.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“It probably isn’t.”
Before I left, she gave me something.
A small brass screw.
I stared.
“What is this?”
“From the plaque where I hid the drive.”
“How did you get it?”
“Police returned personal effects they didn’t need.”
“Why give it to me?”
She shrugged.
“You started with a bowl of noodles.”
“And you started with a loose screw?”
“Basically.”
I laughed.
Then she became serious.
“Keep it.”
I closed my hand around it.
“Why?”
“So you remember tiny things can expose big lies.”
I hugged her.
She hugged me back.
When I left, Dad waited outside.
“How was she?”
“Ask her.”
He smiled.
“Good answer.”
We drove home.
Home.
The word felt strange after weeks of safe houses and guards.
Security remained increased, but federal investigators believed Victor’s network was dismantled.
I wanted normal life.
Then I realized I didn’t know what normal meant anymore.
Westbridge was closed.
My identity was public.
Every school in Los Angeles knew my father.
Dad’s original experiment was permanently over.
“So where do I go now?”
He looked at me.
“School?”
“Yes.”
“We could arrange private tutoring.”
“No.”
“Online?”
“No.”
“Another private school?”
I gave him a look.
“Fair.”
I wanted something different.
A public magnet school had offered temporary enrollment to displaced Westbridge students.
Strong academics.
No luxury campus.
No donor hall.
I told Dad.
He looked nervous.
“That’s forty minutes away.”
“I know.”
“Security would need—”
“Dad.”
He stopped.
Mom’s letter had been taped to his office wall.
LOVE ASKS.
He sighed.
“Do you want to go there?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to be a student.”
He nodded slowly.
“Then we’ll make it work.”
Progress.
The next day, Madison called.
“I heard you’re going to Jefferson Magnet.”
“News travels.”
“My mom wants me in Europe.”
“What do you want?”
“I applied to Jefferson.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody there will care who my dad is.”
I laughed.
“That’s literally why I hid mine.”
“I know.”
“Are you copying me?”
“Maybe.”
Then she became quiet.
“If they accept me, would you hate it?”
I considered the question.
“Yes.”
She laughed.
“Fair.”
“But I wouldn’t stop you.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“Because consequences should make you better, not disappear.”
Madison started crying.
“You really are weird.”
“So you keep saying.”
Three days later, Jefferson accepted both of us.
I thought that meant our next challenge would be school.
I was wrong.
That night, Daniel came into Dad’s study holding a thick envelope.
“No return address.”
Dad frowned.
“Delivered how?”
“Courier.”
He opened it carefully.
Inside was a photograph.
Victor Lane.
Not in custody.
I stared.
“What?”
Daniel’s face was grim.
“It was taken today.”
Dad stood.
“That’s impossible.”
Victor had been detained in federal custody.
Or so we believed.
Daniel turned the photo over.
A handwritten message covered the back.
YOU EXPOSED THE SYSTEM.
NOW FIND OUT WHO BUILT THE EXIT.
My skin went cold.
Victor wasn’t free.
The photo was old.
But someone wanted us to think he was.
Dad checked the date metadata.
Manipulated.
A psychological attack.
Then another sheet slid from the envelope.
A list of juror names.
For a trial that hadn’t even begun.
Dad looked at Daniel.
“Call prosecutors.”
I stared at the names.
May you like
The network might be broken.
But someone was still trying to protect it.
