LAST LIGHT PROTOCOL Book Three of the Eva A Trilogy

The cab smelled of pine and old upholstery and the driver did not speak to her and she was grateful for it. Six in the morning, Dulles to Foggy Bottom, the city still dark at the edges and the streetlights burning their particular February orange, and Eva Ashworth sat in the backseat with her bag between her feet and her legal pad open on her knees and looked at the word she had written thirty-five thousand feet above the Atlantic.
HOME.
She had written it at 2 a.m., somewhere over the Azores, not knowing why, and had stared at it for the remaining hours of the flight as the plane descended through layers of cloud into the cold specific gravity of Washington in February. She had not been here in eleven months. She understood, sitting in the cab, that the word was not a statement. It was a question she was not ready to answer.