“I wonder if Wilkie might put you on the track of that fake Vermeer in the Corcoran,” she said impulsively. “The charming one of the girl holding the rabbit.”

He lifted his eyes to look at her. “Why would he do that?”

“Because it’s a form of counterfeit, and if the Secret Service won’t do anything about it, who will?”

He shrugged and continued rotating the plate with a single finger. His numbness frightened her, and she scrambled for a way to cut through his despondency.

She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said quietly.

He pulled his hand away. “I was two yards away when Czolgosz fired that gun. Of course it’s my fault.”

There was no heat in his words, only blankness. Everyone in this city was grieving, but only Nathaniel blamed himself. It was as if the weight of the nation sat on his chest, making it impossible to breathe.

“Sullivan was even closer, but it wasn’t his fault either. There were two dozen police officers in the building that day. You don’t need to shoulder all the blame, Nathaniel.”

This had to be handled carefully. She couldn’t minimize what had happened, or he would reject her outright.

“You mustn’t let your failures define you,” she said gently.

He gave her a sad smile. “But I do.”

“What do you suppose God thinks of you right now?”

That took him aback. For a moment he looked bewildered, but it was quickly replaced by shame. “I can’t imagine it’s anything good.”

“Wrong,” she said. “You are unconditionally loved. Unconditionally forgiven. You are a child of God, deserving of more credit than you’re giving yourself. None of us are perfect. We will stumble and fall and make mistakes time and again, but we can’t wallow in our failure. Someday we have to accept God’s grace to stand up and try again. Nathaniel, you are forgiven.”

He said nothing and went back to rotating the plate, and she mustered her forces to try again.

“God knew exactly what Czolgosz was going to do that day, and He let it happen. I don’t know why, and I wish you hadn’t been chosen for such a pivotal role in it, but you mustn’t blame yourself.”

He still wouldn’t look at her, but the finger rotating the plate slowed. Then stopped. At least he was thinking about what she’d said.

“Would you please eat a little of that sandwich?”

He shrugged.

“What about the fake Vermeer? I’d like to ask Wilkie to assign you to investigate the fraud. Would that interest you?”