Semua Bab ONE WILD NIGHT : Bab 101 - Bab 105

Maya’s POVSix months after publishing the evidence, our lives had settled into a fragile rhythm. It wasn’t peaceful, not exactly, but it was real. We lived carefully, always alert, yet finally breathing again.Emma was learning to sit up now, her dark eyes following every movement in the room with fierce curiosity. Jake had been accepted into MIT’s early admission program with a full scholarship, something that still felt unreal when we said it out loud. And Collins-Stone Consulting hadn’t just survived the scandal—it had grown.“Three hundred and eighty-five thousand monthly,” Alex said one morning during breakfast, Emma bouncing happily on his knee. “We’re getting close to five million a year.”“How?” I asked honestly, surprised. “We lost so many clients.”“We gained more,” he said with a tired but proud smile. “Companies that care about ethics instead of connections. People who watched us fight corruption and wanted to stand with us. Turns out, standing for something actually matt

Maya’s POVSpring arrived with the softness of hope. Emma was nine months old now, crawling everywhere, pulling herself up on furniture, babbling sounds that almost resembled words. Jake was finishing his junior year at MIT with straight A’s, already receiving internship offers from tech companies. And Collins-Stone Consulting had grown beyond anything we’d imagined.“Four hundred twenty-eight thousand monthly,” Alex reported during our Sunday breakfast, Emma in her high chair smashing banana into her face with delighted concentration. “Over five million annually. We’re officially a mid-sized firm.”“How many employees now?” I asked.“Twenty-three consultants, eleven support staff. We’re looking at bigger office space again—the current one’s already cramped.”I was consulting twenty hours weekly now, managing eight clients I loved working with. The work fed something in me that had been dormant during those dark depression months—a sense of purpose, competence, contribution.“How are

Maya’s POVTwo years after stepping back, we stood in the auditorium of Portland Community College watching the first Michael Collins Memorial Scholarship recipients graduate.Twenty-three students—children of journalists, whistleblowers, activists, and truth-tellers who’d been killed or destroyed for speaking out. All receiving degrees they’d earned with scholarships funded by the evidence my father died protecting.“This is his legacy,” I whispered to Alex, watching them cross the stage. Emma, now three and a half, sat on his lap, asking too-loud questions about why people wore “funny hats.”After the ceremony, recipients lined up to meet us. One young woman, Sarah Chen, approached with tears in her eyes.“My mother exposed toxic dumping by her company. They fired and sued her into bankruptcy. She died when I was twelve.” Sarah’s voice broke. “This scholarship gave me what poverty took away—a future. Thank you.”I hugged her tightly. “Your mother was a hero.“No,” Sarah said. “This