It was now four days since they escaped.
The girls were hiding in Nairobi, in a cramped two-room bedsitter in Kayole that belonged to Miss Mukami's cousin, Auntie Kendi a loud, loyal woman who wore wigs like helmets and didn't ask too many questions.
"No shouting," she warned them, locking the gate. "And if you see anyone loitering outside, don't open the curtain. Nairobi doesn't play with people who know secrets."
Inside, the girls lay on mattresses on the floor, blankets pulled over their heads.
Nyambura was still typing.
Her fingers were trembling, but her mind was sharp. She had just posted the second blog entry.
"His name is Mwakazi. Principal of Situra High. He ruined lives. We were his students. And we ran for our lives."
She clicked publish.
Then she waited.
It had started with something small.
A key.
Form Four girl, Halima, had been helping in the staffroom when she saw it fall from Mr. Kosgei's pocket. She picked it and noticed the label: "R14."
But Situra High didn't have a Room 14.
At least, that's what everyone thought.
She asked the lab assistant. He scratched his head, looked away, then whispered, "Don't ask about that place. Just stay sharp."
Halima told Nyambura that evening.
That's when the digging began.
Back in Kayole, Miss Mukami was pacing the corridor.
She hadn't slept properly since she picked the girls.
Her phone had been pinging with strange numbers. One message had said:
"This is not your war. Don't become a martyr."
She deleted it. But her heart raced.
She had sent copies of the blog to three journalists. Only one replied — a young one from an online news site.
"Can I meet the girls?" he asked.
"No," she replied. "But I can send proof."
She opened her email and attached the photos she'd found last year screenshots from CCTV she wasn't supposed to access.
Girls entering Room 14. Some limping as they left.
Mwakazi's hand on one girl's back.
She clicked send.
It was no longer about fear.
It was about justice.
A week before the escape, Chebet had found a notebook in the headboy's locker. He was Mwakazi's blue-eyed boy. Always defending him. Always watching the girls.
The notebook had lists.
Names. Times. Codes like "F4-J – compliant" and "F3-M – stubborn. Delay."
It was sick.
It was clear.
The girls brought it to Nyambura. She cried after reading it. Then she opened her blog and began her first post in secret.
They had no idea the price they'd pay.
Back in the bedsitter, Amina screamed suddenly.
"Guys! Look!"
The blog had gone viral.
The headline was now trending on Twitter. #Room14
One popular influencer had reposted it:
"If this is true, this principal needs to be in Kamiti by sunset."
A popular radio station mentioned it on the morning show.
And then came the biggest sign.
Citizen TV posted:
"BREAKING: Education Ministry launches probe into Situra High sexual abuse claims. Seven girls missing, teacher also unaccounted for."
The room went quiet.
For the first time in weeks… they felt something close to hope.
But far away, in a dingy cyber café near Rongai, Kosgei smiled as he clicked on the blog.
"Fools," he muttered.
Every click left a trail.
He zoomed in on one blurry photo a poster behind Nyambura in a selfie.
"Kayole," he whispered.
He stood up, made a call.
"We found them."
Back at the bedsitter, Miss Mukami got a new call — this time from someone inside the Ministry.
"We believe you. But you need to bring those girls in. Now. Media is camping outside the school. The police are getting involved."
She looked at the sleeping girls.
She knew the world was finally listening.
But the hunters were still out there.
And Nairobi was big… but not big enough to hide from evil forever.