David first spoke to Joyce at an art exhibition in Victoria Island, although Joyce had known for three weeks that he would be there.
She had studied the guest list through a contact at the foundation hosting the event. She knew his photograph from Adebayo Holdings' website. She knew he was married, the only son of the late Chief Bamidele Adebayo, and father to one child.
What she had not prepared for was his laugh. She had put on Prada Paradoxe Intense before leaving home, more from habit than intention. By now it had settled close to her skin, a quiet floral warmth beneath the gallery's cold air. He stood in front of a large abstract painting with a glass of water in one hand and the expression of a man who had been polite for too many hours.
Joyce stopped beside him.
"You hate it."
David turned. "Excuse me?"
She nodded toward the painting. "You've been staring at it for almost three minutes, and you look offended." A smile touched his mouth. "Maybe I'm thinking deeply."
"No. You're trying to decide whether pretending to understand it is less embarrassing than walking away."
He laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
"And you understand it?" he asked.
"Perfectly."
"Really?"
"No. It looks like somebody spilled expensive paint and convinced rich people to call it grief."
David laughed again, properly this time. Joyce felt a small, unwanted shift inside her.
He was supposed to be access. A route into a family that had buried a woman and stolen a child. She had expected arrogance. Entitlement would have helped.
Instead he looked tired.
"David," he said, offering his hand.
"I know."
His eyebrows lifted.
Joyce accepted the hand. "David Adebayo. Most people in business circles know the name."
"And you are?"
"Joyce Williams."
His hand remained around hers half a second too long.
"Should I know that name?"
"Not yet."
She smiled and walked away before he could ask another question. She knew he watched her go.
That was the plan.
What was not the plan was the brief shame that followed. David had done nothing to earn being used as a corridor into his own home. Joyce reminded herself that Amara had done nothing to earn being erased either. The thought did not absolve her. It only kept her moving.
The rest of the evening unfolded with uncomfortable efficiency. David found her again near the terrace and asked what she did. Joyce gave him the safe version.
"Research and strategy consulting."
"That sounds like a profession designed to make people nervous."
"Only people with bad strategy."
"Then half of Lagos should be terrified."
They discussed a foundation project, then a failed public campaign Joyce had once reviewed. David listened rather than waiting for his turn to speak. That irritated her more than arrogance would have.
"You work with philanthropic organisations?" he asked.
"Sometimes."
"Our foundation is reviewing its youth programmes."
Joyce kept her expression neutral.
There it was.
The door she had come to find.
"Then you need someone who will tell you what isn't working."
"You think we don't have those people?"
"People paid by you? Probably not."
He smiled.
"Send me your profile."
She handed him a card.
Later, in the car, Joyce stared at the empty seat beside her as if David had left something there. Before starting the engine, she opened the notes app where she kept investigative leads. Under DAVID ADEBAYO she had written: foundation access, old files, Victoria, family records. She added nothing about the way he laughed. That detail belonged nowhere useful.
An email arrived before she reached home. David had copied the foundation director and asked that Joyce be considered for the strategic review. Professional. Efficient. Exactly what she wanted.
She should have felt only satisfaction. Instead she wondered whether he would have sent the email if she had been less interesting to him, and whether using that interest made the investigation cleaner or dirtier.
Her phone rang.
Grace.
"How did it go?"
Joyce looked back toward the gallery entrance. David had stepped outside, speaking to an older man. Under the streetlight he looked less like a surname and more like a person who had spent too long carrying one.
"Fine," Joyce said.
"Fine means?"
"He offered to connect me to the foundation."
Grace was silent.
"That is what you wanted."
"Yes."
"Then why do you sound worried?"
Joyce started the car.
"I don't."
It was the first lie she told her mother about David.
Not the last.