Everett Langston had negotiated deals that moved markets.
He’d signed papers that reshaped cities.
But nothing prepared him for the sentence that landed on his desk like a wrecking ball.
“She lives there,” his private investigator said.
Not in a penthouse.
Not on a campus.
Not “finding herself.”
In a homeless shelter.
Everett stared at the photo: a young woman at an industrial sink, sleeves rolled up, hands in cloudy dishwater.
Quiet. Contained. Like someone who learned early not to take up space.
