“She didn’t like me any better the day I got her away from the shooter at the Naval Hospital. We just need to do our job.”

He strode toward the dining room at the rear of the house. He needed a complete plan for security in place before tomorrow’s election. It was a surprisingly modest house, the ordinary two-story home of a government lawyer, which was how William McKinley once earned his living.

While inspecting the ground floor, Nathaniel overheard Caroline and George planning the election day festivities. Weather permitting, President McKinley would spend most of the day on his front porch welcoming any visitor who wanted to shake his hand. That meant more guards at the base of the walk, because Nathaniel wanted every visitor frisked before approaching the porch.

The hardwood floors creaked beneath his feet as he headed into the office, a hint of cigar smoke and musty books in the air. It was a corner office with a desk, a hand-knitted blanket draped over the chair, and windows on two walls, both screened by overgrown bushes.

“Get those bushes trimmed way back before the gathering tonight,” he told Sullivan.

“Absolutely not!” The first lady stood in the doorway, her face grim. “My father planted those bushes back in 1865, and they are not to be tampered with.”

“They’re a security hazard.”

“My viburnum bushes are nonnegotiable,” Mrs. McKinley bit out. “No one in Canton would hurt the Major. He is beloved here.”

She limped down the hall, no doubt carrying this latest outrage to her husband. How a man as congenial as William McKinley could tolerate a harridan like that all these years was a mystery.

Nathaniel breathed a sigh of relief once she was gone. The dining room still needed to be inspected, but as he crossed the front hall toward it, a photograph snagged his attention, seizing his heart like a fist.

The girl in the photograph looked like Molly. He didn’t even have a picture of his little sister, but the girl in the portrait looked so much like her that it hurt. Brown hair, large eyes, and an impish smile.

He couldn’t help himself. He picked up the photograph. If he unfocused his eyes, he could almost imagine it was Molly. Would this pain never stop?

“That was our daughter.”

It was the president who spoke, standing directly behind him with Mrs. McKinley on his arm. Nathaniel swallowed, embarrassed to be caught handling a personal item, but neither of them seemed affronted. The McKinleys had had two daughters. One died in infancy, but the other lived to be a lively little girl before typhoid took her.

Nathaniel set down the photograph. “She looks like a delightful child.”