She closed the notes app. She looked at the time. Five-twelve. Wednesday morning was fifteen hours away.
She put the car in reverse and drove to the Moriartys' house on Fairhollow Street, and on the way she called Imre, and when he picked up she said, "Are you hurt?" and he said, "No. A little. Not really," and she said, "I'm so sorry," and he said, "It's not your fault," and then he said, "Did you notice what he said, though? Before Huck pulled him off?" and she said she hadn't been there, and he said, "He said Sunday night, forty minutes, Kroger on Seventh. He knew all of that. Somebody sent him a picture. But he didn't say anything about Thursday. He didn't say, you told me you were talking to him, I thought it was just questions. If he remembered Thursday he'd have said that. That's the first thing anybody would've said."
"I know," Noor said.
"I told him to ask you. And to try to remember it." Imre paused. "I'm not sure that was kind."
"It was true," she said.
"Those aren't always the same thing," said Imre, who had spent three years learning the difference in a split-level on Birchmont Avenue, and then he said, "Go. Tell him. I'll be around if you need me," and hung up.
Gerrit was in the garage when she pulled up. The door was open and the light was off and he was sitting on the weight bench in the dark with his elbows on his knees, and he did not get up when her headlights swept over him. She turned off the engine. She sat for a second. Then she got out and walked up the driveway and stood just inside the garage door, where the concrete changed from smooth to stained, and waited for him to say something.
"I know," he said finally. "I know. I shouldn't have done that."