Got it. Here's your text in web novel format with no additions:
Chapter 14: The Ledger
Layla's heart pounded as she stared at her neighbor's door, the image of the hooded figure slipping a package beneath it burned into her mind. The note—"Trust no one" —echoed alongside the voicemail's whisper—"You're too close" , the trashed studio , and Sana's burner phone in the abandoned shop. Sister Halima's sighting of Sana arguing with a hooded man near the masjid and Omar's audit findings tying Idris's father to discrepancies tightened the web of fear.
Layla knelt on her prayer mat, the moonlight faint through her window, and whispered a dua: "Ya Allah, protect me from what hides. Unveil the truth before it destroys me."
The neighborhood stirred with dawn—vendors dragging carts of halal meat, their shouts sharp in the crisp air; kids racing to the park, their laughter distant; the Fajr prayer call fading into the clatter of waking streets. But the package's shadow turned every sound into a threat, every corner a potential spy.
Layla couldn't ignore it or wait for Idris's answers about Malik. She texted Brother Yusuf, her neighbor: Saw someone leave a package under your door last night. Can we check it together? I'm worried.
His reply was quick: Assalamu alaikum, Layla. That's strange—I'll grab it now. Meet me outside.
Yusuf met her on the stoop, his gray thobe catching the morning light, a small padded envelope in his hands, unmarked except for a faint smudge of dirt.
"No label," he said, voice low, eyes scanning the street. "You sure about this, Layla? Could be trouble."
"I have to know," she said, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
They opened it carefully, revealing a USB drive labeled "Malik's Ledger" in sharpie. Layla's stomach dropped—Malik, the creditor Idris claimed was "just business" , now tied to this mystery.
"I need to see what's on it," she said, thanking Yusuf before hurrying inside.
She called Amina, voice urgent. "Amina, I found a USB—'Malik's Ledger.' Can Tariq help? Meet at the café, 10 AM?"
Amina's reply was tense: That's big, Layla. Tariq's with me—we'll be there.
The community café hummed with morning energy—students on laptops, aunties gossiping over croissants, the air thick with cardamom coffee. Layla sat in a corner booth, her maroon hijab tucked neatly, the USB heavy in her pocket. Amina and Tariq arrived, Tariq's laptop already open, his hoodie loose.
"Let's see it," he said, plugging in the drive.
His screen filled with encrypted files, but after tense minutes, he cracked the password—"Qamar2018." Folders appeared, one labeled "Payments." Inside, spreadsheets showed transfers from Malik to an account labeled "S.K."—Sana Khan?—totaling thousands over two years.
Layla's breath caught, the pieces snapping together.
"Malik and Sana—they're working together," she said, voice trembling. "This is about Idris's family, isn't it?"
Tariq nodded, scrolling. "Payments start right after Sana's program shut down. Looks like Malik's funding her—maybe to dig up dirt on Idris's dad."
Amina's eyes widened, her sketchbook untouched. "Layla, this ties Sana to the notes, the camera—everything. We need to tell Idris."
Layla texted Idris, her fingers shaky: Found something on Malik—serious. Community cleanup, 2 PM? Sister Rahma can chaperone.
His reply was quick: Assalamu alaikum, Layla. 2 PM works. I'll be honest.
The community cleanup event buzzed with activity, volunteers in gloves clearing trash from the youth center's lot, kids kicking a soccer ball nearby, the air filled with laughter and the scent of grilled kebabs from a food stall. Sister Rahma, a board member, oversaw the event, her navy hijab bright, her presence a chaperone's reassurance.
Idris arrived, his navy thobe crisp, his leather bracelet glinting, but his eyes held a new strain.
"Assalamu alaikum, Layla," he said, joining her near a pile of debris. "What's this about Malik?"
Layla handed him a printed page from the ledger, her voice low.
"This USB was left at my neighbor's—payments from Malik to Sana, starting after her program closed. They're working together, Idris. What does Malik have on you?"
Idris's face paled, his fingers tightening on the paper.
"Malik… he threatened me last week," he admitted, voice strained. "Said if we didn't speed up payments, he'd expose the 'hidden deal'—make it look like fraud, not a failed investment. I didn't know about Sana, Layla—I swear. I thought he was just pressuring us for money."
His admission hit like a stone, the "hidden deal" now a weapon, Malik's threats a betrayal Idris hid.
"You knew he was dangerous," Layla said, her voice trembling, eyes searching his. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Idris rubbed his neck, his gaze pained. "I wanted to protect you, fix it quietly. I was wrong, Layla—I'm sorry. I'll confront Malik, get the truth. Give me a day."
Sister Rahma called them to help with a trash pile, and Layla nodded, her heart heavy, Idris's promise fragile against the ledger's revelations. She whispered a dua as they worked: "Ya Allah, show me the path."
That evening, the neighborhood buzzed with unrest, protests forming outside the youth center, signs reading "Audit Now!" and "Transparency for Our Kids!" Omar's audit findings had leaked—discrepancies in 2018 grants, pointing to Idris's father, fueling anger. Layla watched from her window, the chants loud, the air thick with tension. Whispers spread—"He stole from us," "Step down!"—as Omar's influence grew, his victory a wedge splitting the community.
Layla's phone buzzed with a new email—a conditional interview at a community school, her application accepted despite dispute ties, but requiring a clean background check. Hope flickered, but the protests outside dimmed it, her involvement a shadow over her dreams.
She called Amina, voice strained. "The protests are bad, Amina. Idris admitted Malik's threats, but this ledger—it's bigger. What's at the shop?"
Amina's voice was tense. "Tariq and I scouted it—found burner phone logs, confirming Sana's calls to your voicemail. She's been tracking you, Layla. The shop's a mess—old receipts, a sleeping bag. She's living there."
Layla's stomach churned, Sana's proximity a suffocating threat, the ledger tying her to Malik.
"Stay away from there," she urged. "It's too dangerous."
Her parents summoned her to the living room, the air heavy, the scent of cardamom tea faint. Her father sat, his face stern, glasses low.
"I spoke to the elders," he said, voice sharp. "They agree—cut ties with Idris, Layla. This audit, these threats—it's too much."
Her mother, on the couch, her bangles soft, shared a story.
"When I married your father, his family faced rumors—debts, failed deals," she said, eyes gentle. "I stood by him, beta, because I saw his heart through faith. Pray istikhara, but listen to your father—this storm is fierce."
Layla's throat tightened, their words a vise—her father's ultimatum, her mother's hope.
"I'm praying, Ammi," she said, voice small. "I need the whole truth."
At the masjid for Maghrib, Layla sought Sister Fatima, the women's section calm, the carpet plush. Sister Fatima sat by a bookshelf, her navy hijab neat.
"Layla, the protests—they echo a dispute from years ago," she said, voice low. "Funds vanished then, too. Be careful—anger blinds truth."
Layla nodded, her dua fervent: "Ya Allah, guide me."
At home, her phone buzzed—an unknown number, a text:
"The ledger is just the beginning."
Her heart raced, the stranger's words a chilling promise—Sana, Malik, Omar's audit, Idris's secrets—Layla's world was a tightening noose, the truth a blade she couldn't escape.