The President's Daughter by Mariah Stewart

called a quiet greeting even as he entered the lobby.
    The receptionist returned the greeting in a voice that was nearly a whisper, though as he came closer Simon couldn’t imagine whom she might be disturbing. As far as he could see, not another soul was present.
    “I’m here to see Mr. Kendall,” Simon told her.
    “Is he expecting you?”
    “Ah, no. Is that a problem?”
    “Only if he’s sleeping, or in therapy.” She put her call on hold.
    “Perhaps you could find out if he’s available for company right now.”
    “Sure. Just a second.”
    Simon’s eyes scanned the row of portraits that hung from the walls in heavy frames and wondered if any of the subjects had ever been residents of the house or if their presence was a deliberate effort to give the hall the appearance of still being part of a family home.
    “Mr. Kendall is in the dayroom.”
    “Where might that be?”
    “It’s through those double doors and down to the end of the hall to the new wing. But you’ll have to wait for an aide to take you.” She pressed a green button on the phone, then turned her back as if to preserve her privacy.
    As if Simon couldn’t hear every word she said.
    “Someone will be out in a minute,” she said as she swiveled around in her chair to face him again. “You’ll have to sign in first, though.”
    She pointed to a notebook, opened flat with a pen cradled in the seam, that lay upon a small table to her right. Simon signed in—name, date, time, and destination—and looked up to find his escort coming through the double doors.
    “You’re here to see Mr. Kendall?” asked a pleasant young woman with thick glasses perched upon a wide round face.
    “Yes, I—”
    “Wonderful. Come this way.” She gestured for him to follow as she quietly closed the doors behind them, then stopped to ask, “You’ve signed in?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. The dayroom is this way.” She pointed to the left. “So nice that someone has come to see the old gentleman. Such a sweet man, most of the time anyway.”
    “He doesn’t have many visitors, then?” Simon quickened his step to keep up with her.
    “None,” she told him. “At least, none on my shift.”
    “Which shift is that?”
    “Eight A.M. to four P.M.”
    “How long have you been here?”
    “Oh, since we opened five years ago. I was one of the first employees,” she said with just a touch of pride.
    “And Mr. Kendall hasn’t had any visitors in all that time?”
    “Oh, he hasn’t been here all that time. Just since his nephew moved . . . the end of last summer, maybe? But I don’t recall that anyone’s come to see him. Shame, really, to live so long and have everyone forget about you, you know?”
    She paused at French doors that opened into a spacious room with a wall of windows that looked out over a vast expanse of lawn divided by a fast-moving stream.
    “There, in the rocking chair,” she said in a low voice, as if afraid to disturb the occupants of the room. If any heard, none reacted.
    “They’re
all
in rocking chairs,” Simon whispered.
    “The gentleman nearest the window. Sorry. I thought you knew him.”
    “We’ve never met.”
    “Nice of you to take time to visit a stranger, then. I hope he’s talking today. So often he isn’t.”
    “Well, I guess I’ll soon find out.” Simon smiled and noticed her name tag. “June. Thank you.”
    “You can find your way out when you’re finished?”
    “Yes. I’ll be fine.”
    “If not, there’s always an orderly or two around. Take your time. Just remember to sign out.”
    Simon walked the length of the wide room on dark maroon carpet, though no one seemed to notice him at all. Even Miles Kendall didn’t blink when Simon pulled over a chair and sat down facing the old man.
    Pale blue eyes were set in a face grown narrow with age. Brown spots covered his hands, and as Simon drew closer he could see there were several similar patches on the man’s bald head as well. Dressed in a plaid cotton