Myron didn’t know if that came from a media decision to respect the family’s request for privacy or from news cycles being so short or from the fact that there was no new kindling for the coverage fire. Probably a combination of all three, but either way, Myron was grateful. It was eight P.M. when he pulled into the driveway and knocked on the door. Nancy Moore opened the door with a glass of white wine in her hand. “It’s late,” she said. “Sorry,” Myron said. “I would have called.” “It’s been a long day.” “I know.” “I wouldn’t have even opened the door except . . .” He knew. She still felt obligated. “Look, I need to talk to you for just a few moments.” Myron looked past her into the house. “Is Hunter here?” “No. He drove back to Pennsylvania tonight.” “That’s where he lives?”
