The San Francisco fog, usually soft and familiar, felt heavy on Eva Langston's shoulders. It clung to the Golden Gate Bridge, covered the tops of tall buildings, and now, it felt like it was sinking into her bones. Two years. That’s how long it had been since she left this city, chasing truth and justice with a pen name—E.L. Verity. Back then, it felt powerful. Now, it felt like an old costume she'd outgrown.She stared out of the taxi window, watching familiar streets and recognizing familiar faces. Every turn brought back memories she wasn’t ready for. The little café where she’d first interviewed a whistle-blower. The park bench where she’d spent hours reviewing documents. The street where she’d last seen Lucian Thorne; his face cold, angry, unforgiving.“Almost there, miss,” the driver mumbled, snapping her back to the moment.Her stomach twisted. Home. The word felt wrong in her mouth. Home meant facing her father, Henry Langston, and everything she’d tried to run from. She’d pic
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