The flight back to New York felt longer than the journey to Montenegro.
Not because of the distance.
Not because of the exhaustion.
Because for the first time since Isobel Marchetti had slid the hard drive across that café table, Dayo had enough quiet to think.
The black drive sat inside his backpack beneath a folder of contracts and travel documents. Anyone searching the bag would have seen nothing special. A cheap piece of plastic. A storage device worth less than a decent dinner.
Forty years of secrets hidden inside something that could fit into a pocket.
Max slept in the seat across the aisle.
Bella was reading something on her tablet.
The cabin remained quiet.
Dayo stared through the window at clouds stretching endlessly beneath them and found himself thinking less about Michael and more about Luna.
He had told her it was business.
Technically, it had been.
The problem was that technical truths often hid bigger lies.
