“You’re right.” She tried to smile, but it wouldn’t form. She licked her lips. “Can you let me go?”

Immediately, he released her. “So, it was the night of the dinner?”

Wrapping her arms around herself against the sudden shiver that went down her spine, she nodded. “Why was I not afraid when I had a gun to my head at my clinic, but when they invaded the president’s home and it was never about me, really, why can’t I get that out of my head?”

After a moment, he said, “Because it was never about you. It was about your father. If we hadn’t arrived when we did, he would be dead now. Plain and simple. If you hadn’t called us, he would be dead, and you would have spent the entire time they kept you alive suffering unspeakable horrors until they finally killed you.”

She pulled her sweater tighter around her neck and wrapped her arms around her middle. “I don’t understand.”

“He would have killed every person in that room, and deep down, you know you couldn’t have stopped him. It was the lack of power that’s making you afraid in your psyche. Hurt you? Fine. Hurt other people? Use you? Not so fine.”

“Now who’s doing a psych rotation?”

He slipped his hands into his pockets. “I just know the things that scare me. Facing God after my death is not one of them, but seeing people I love hurting or in danger—that can scare me.”

They continued walking. She stepped closer to him, enjoying having him by her side. When they reached the car, she felt like they’d arrived there way too soon. “You never answered my question. How long are you staying in DC?”

He leaned against the hood of the car. “I guess that depends on whether you’d like to have lunch with me tomorrow.”

With a grin, she looked up at him. “I think I can manage that.”

“Then I’m here at least through tomorrow.” He looked over her shoulder. “Someone has been following us since we stopped by the water. It’s not Secret Service.”

She closed her eyes and sighed, trying to release the sudden irritation at the invasion of their privacy. “Probably press.”

“Ah.” He shifted, slipped a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket, and put them on. He opened her door. “Then let us depart, Doctor Myers. The last thing I want or need is my picture in the paper, especially without a beard.”

As he drove away from the park, she glanced at his profile. “I’m sorry about the press. It’s something I’ve gotten used to since I came home. It never used to be a thing. At least, not until the president’s sixtieth birthday. Now I think Daddy’s position has compounded that.”