Raven sat alone in the back booth of a forgotten diner on the edge of the East District, the kind of place where the booths were cracked, the coffee burnt, and no one asked questions. The rain tapped softly on the windows, a steady rhythm that masked the thudding in her chest.
A manila folder lay on the table before her, thick with the kind of truth that could ruin empires.
She flipped it open one last time, eyes scanning the neatly typed numbers, offshore accounts, forged receipts, and donation ledgers twisted into knots. Zane Morreau’s name never appeared. He was too careful for that, but the shell organizations he’d been funneling money through, especially the children's charity called Bright Horizons, told the story.
Money that should’ve gone to underfed kids and neglected classroom
