He took a step toward her. She got up and paced about the room. Her hair had fallen out of the bun. She held her shoulders up. She stared at a point on the far side of the room.

“You were his—” she began to say.

She walked past him to the entrance to the room. She opened the door. Jordan peered into the office.

“There’s still much to do,” she said.

“Yes,” Addis said, and left.

In his office, more messages, more email. A note from McGreer: Hamilton Kelly had promised that a draft of Mumfries’s speech would be ready soon.

Addis pulled a book from one of the cartons scattered throughout the office. He thumbed through the pages. There was no notepad on his desk, so he reached into the trash can and found a plain white envelope. On the back, he wrote down a passage:

We never know what we have lost, or what we have found. We are only ourselves, and that promise. Continue to walk in the world.

—Robert Penn Warren

A light rain had just begun as Addis walked from the West Wing to the Old Executive Office Building. Inside, his wet heels squeaked against the tile floor of the hallway. He entered the suite; the secretary was gone. He pushed open the door to Kelly’s office. It was empty. He placed the envelope on the desk. He noticed that the rain had caused the ink to run.

9 - Rosslyn June 23

9

Rosslyn June 23

Julia Lancette watched the funeral on television. The closed, flag-draped casket lay beneath a too-bright sky. Margaret Mason Hanover stood in the front. Next to her was thirteen-year-old Jack in a wheelchair. Behind them was President Mumfries, his wife, Sally, Bob Hanover’s brother, and the senior White House staff. Addis was grasping the arm of the sobbing woman next to him. Wesley Pratt, the presumptive presidential nominee of the other party, stood off to the side. A crowd of thousands flowed down the hill at Arlington Cemetery. A minister was talking about unfinished work and the never-ending task of redemption. A flock of crows was squawking. A Marine bugler played. Two members of the honor guard stepped forward. They lifted the flag and, with precise, crisp motions, folded it. One handed the triangle to the widow. She clutched it to her chest and then passed it to Sally Mumfries. Next, Margaret Hanover wheeled Jack to the casket. She knelt beside her son. She leaned forward and placed her lips against the polished wood. The television pool camera zoomed in. She whispered a word or two toward the casket. The microphones caught only the sound of the wind and the birds.