The café was almost empty by the time I arrived. A few couples lingered at the far tables, their voices low enough to blend into the gentle hum of background music. I spotted her before she saw me.

Lena Nyarko.

She didn’t look like the woman I had imagined. She was younger, sharper around the eyes. She wore a black turtleneck under a beige trench, sleeves pushed up, and she sat with her back straight, like someone who had grown used to holding uncomfortable truths without flinching. Her ...