During the four-hour flight, neither child spoke a single word.

They drank a little warm milk, but they refused the plates of fruit and toast the flight attendant brought.

Owen eventually fell asleep with his head on Ryker’s lap.

His small, pale fingers remained tightly knotted in the bear’s greyish, matted fur.

Ryker did not move the entire flight, keeping his broad hand resting gently on Owen’s shoulder.

He looked out the window at the endless bank of dark clouds, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line.

“The Vance family owes money to people who do not use banks,” Ryker said quietly to me.

“I know,” I replied, typing on my laptop. “Marco is already tracing their offshore accounts.”

“We need to find out what Edward was running from,” he said.

By the time we landed in Washington, a heavy coastal fog had rolled in.

The air was thick with the scent of damp pine and salt water.

An armored black SUV was waiting for us on the dark, slick tarmac.

We drove for forty minutes through the winding, forested roads of the peninsula.