Gone Girl

‘Oh.’ She frowned. ‘That’s weird, because you don’t have any coffee here. Nowhere in the house. I remember thinking it was odd. A caffeine addict notices these things.’

Right, just something you happened to notice, I thought. I knew a cop named Boney Moronie … Her traps are so obvious, they’re clearly phony …

‘I had a leftover cup in the fridge I heated up.’ I shrugged again: No big deal.

‘Huh. Must have been there a long time – I noticed there’s no coffee container in the trash.’

‘Few days. Still tastes good.’

We both smiled at each other: I know and you know. Game on. I actually thought those idiotic words: Game on. Yet I was pleased in a way: The next part was starting.

Boney turned to Gilpin, hands on knees, and gave a little nod. Gilpin chewed his lip some more, then finally pointed: toward the ottoman, the end table, the living room now righted. ‘See, here’s our problem, Nick,’ he started. ‘We’ve seen dozens of home invasions—’

‘Dozens upon dozens upon dozens,’ Boney interrupted.

‘Many home invasions. This – all this area right there, in the living room – remember it? The upturned ottoman, the overturned table, the vase on the floor’ – he slapped down a photo of the scene in front of me – ‘this whole area, it was supposed to look like a struggle, right?’

My head expanded and snapped back into place. Stay calm. ‘Supposed to?’

‘It looked wrong,’ Gilpin continued. ‘From the second we saw it. To be honest, the whole thing looked staged. First of all, there’s the fact that it was all centered in this one spot. Why wasn’t anything messed up anywhere but this room? It’s odd.’ He proffered another photo, a close-up. ‘And look here, at this pile of books. They should be in front of the end table – the end table is where they were stacked, right?’

I nodded.

‘So when the end table was knocked over, they should have spilled mostly in front of it, following the trajectory of the falling table. Instead, they’re back behind it, as if someone swept them off before knocking over the table.’

I stared dumbly at the photo.

‘And watch this. This is very curious to me,’ Gilpin continued. He pointed at three slender antique frames on the mantelpiece. He stomped heavily, and they all flopped facedown immediately. ‘But somehow they stayed upright through everything else.’

He showed a photo of the frames upright. I had been hoping – even after they caught my Houston’s dinner slipup – that they were dumb cops, cops from the movies, local rubes aiming to please, trusting the local guy: Whatever you say, buddy. I didn’t get dumb cops.

‘I don’t know what you want me to say,’ I mumbled. ‘It’s totally – I just don’t know what to think about this. I just want to find my wife.’

‘So do we, Nick, so do we,’ Rhonda said. ‘But here’s another thing. The ottoman – remember how it was flipped upside down?’ She patted the squatty ottoman, pointed at its four peg legs, each only an inch high. ‘See, this thing is bottom-heavy because of those tiny legs. The cushion practically sits on the floor. Try to push it over.’ I hesitated. ‘Go on, try it,’ Boney urged.

I gave it a push, but it slid across the carpet instead of turning over. I nodded. I agreed. It was bottom-heavy.

‘Seriously, get down there if you need to, and knock that thing upside down,’ Boney ordered.

I knelt down, pushed from lower and lower angles, finally put a hand underneath the ottoman, and flipped it. Even then it lifted up, one side hovering, and fell back into place; I finally had to pick it up and turn it over manually.

‘Weird, huh?’ Boney said, not sounding all that puzzled.

‘Nick, you do any housecleaning the day your wife went missing?’ Gilpin asked.

‘No.’

‘Okay, because the tech did a Luminol sweep, and I’m sorry to tell you, the kitchen floor lit up. A good amount of blood was spilled there.’

‘Amy’s type – B positive,’ Boney interrupted. ‘And I’m not talking a little cut, I’m talking blood.’

‘Oh my God.’ A clot of heat appeared in the middle of my chest. ‘But—’

‘Yes, so your wife made it out of this room,’ Gilpin said. ‘Somehow, in theory, she made it into the kitchen – without disturbing any of those gewgaws on that table just outside the kitchen – and then she collapsed in the kitchen, where she lost a lot of blood.’

‘And then someone carefully mopped it up,’ Rhonda said, watching me.

‘Wait. Wait. Why would someone try to hide blood but then mess up the living room—’

‘We’ll figure that out, don’t worry, Nick,’ Rhonda said quietly.

‘I don’t get it, I just don’t—’

‘Let’s sit down,’ Boney said. She pointed me toward a dining room chair. ‘You eat anything yet? Want a sandwich, something?’

I shook my head. Boney was taking turns playing different female characters: powerful woman, doting caregiver, to see what got the best results.

‘How’s your marriage, Nick?’ Rhonda asked. ‘I mean, five years, that’s not far from the seven-year itch.’

‘The marriage was fine,’ I repeated. ‘It’s fine. Not perfect, but good, good.’

She wrinkled her nose: You lie.

‘You think she might have run off?’ I asked, too hopefully. ‘Made this look like a crime scene and took off? Runaway-wife thing?’

Boney began ticking off reasons no: ‘She hasn’t used her cell, she hasn’t used her credit cards, ATM cards. She made no major cash withdrawals in the weeks before.’

‘And there’s the blood,’ Gilpin added. ‘I mean, again, I don’t want to sound harsh, but the amount of blood spilled? That would take some serious … I mean, I couldn’t have done it to myself. I’m talking some deep wounds there. Your wife got nerves of steel?’

‘Yes. She does.’ She also had a deep phobia of blood, but I’d wait and let the brilliant detectives figure that out.

‘It seems extremely unlikely,’ Gilpin said. ‘If she were to wound herself that seriously, why would she mop it up?’

‘So really, let’s be honest, Nick,’ Boney said, leaning over on her knees so she could make eye contact with me as I stared at the floor. ‘How was your marriage currently? We’re on your side, but we need the truth. The only thing that makes you look bad is you holding out on us.’

‘We’ve had bumps.’ I saw Amy in the bedroom that last night, her face mottled with the red hivey splotches she got when she was angry. She was spitting out the words – mean, wild words – and I was listening to her, trying to accept the words because they were true, they were technically true, everything she said.

‘Describe the bumps for us,’ Boney said.

‘Nothing specific, just disagreements. I mean, Amy is a blowstack. She bottles up a bunch of little stuff and – whoom! – but then it’s over. We never went to bed angry.’

‘Not Wednesday night?’ Boney asked.

‘Never,’ I lied.

‘Is it money, what you mostly argue about?’

‘I can’t even think what we’d argue about. Just stuff.’

‘What stuff was it the night she went missing?’ Gilpin said it with a sideways grin, like he’d uttered the most unbelievable gotcha.

‘Like I told you, there was the lobster.’

‘What else? I’m sure you didn’t scream about the lobster for a whole hour.’

At that point Bleecker waddled partway down the stairs and peered through the railings.

‘Other household stuff, too. Married-couple stuff. The cat box,’ I said. ‘Who would clean the cat box.’

‘You were in a screaming argument about a cat box,’ Boney said.

‘You know, the principle of the thing. I work a lot of hours, and Amy doesn’t, and I think it would be good for her if she did some basic home maintenance. Just basic upkeep.’

Gilpin jolted like an invalid woken from an afternoon nap. ‘You’re an old-fashioned guy, right? I’m the same way. I tell my wife all the time, “I don’t know how to iron, I don’t know how to do the dishes. I can’t cook. So, sweetheart, I’ll catch the bad guys, that I can do, and you throw some clothes in the washer now and then.” Rhonda, you were married, did you do the domestic stuff at home?’

Boney looked believably annoyed. ‘I catch bad guys too, idiot.’

Gilpin rolled his eyes toward me; I almost expected him to make a joke – sounds like someone’s on the rag – the guy was laying it on so thick.

Gilpin rubbed his vulpine jaw. ‘So you just wanted a housewife,’ he said to me, making the proposition seem reasonable.

‘I wanted – I wanted whatever Amy wanted. I really didn’t care.’ I appealed to Boney now, Detective Rhonda Boney with the sympathetic air that seemed at least partly authentic. (It’s not, I reminded myself.) ‘Amy couldn’t decide what to do here. She couldn’t find a job, and she wasn’t interested in The Bar. Which is fine, if you want to stay home, that’s fine, I said. But when she stayed home, she was unhappy too. And she’d wait for me to fix it. It was like I was in charge of her happiness.’

Boney said nothing, gave me a face expressionless as water.

‘And, I mean, it’s fun to be hero for a while, be the white knight, but it doesn’t really work for long. I couldn’t make her be happy. She didn’t want to be happy. So I thought if she started taking charge of a few practical things—’

‘Like the cat box,’ said Boney.

‘Yeah, clean the cat box, get some groceries, call a plumber to fix the drip that drove her crazy.’

‘Wow, that sounds like a real happiness plan there. Lotta yuks.’

‘But my point was, do something. Whatever it is, do something. Make the most of the situation. Don’t sit and wait for me to fix everything for you.’ I was speaking loudly, I realized, and I sounded almost angry, certainly righteous, but it was such a relief. I’d started with a lie – the cat box – and turned that into a surprising burst of pure truth, and I realized why criminals talked too much, because it feels so good to tell your story to a stranger, someone who won’t call bullshit, someone forced to listen to your side. (Someone pretending to listen to your side, I corrected.)

‘So the move back to Missouri?’ Boney said. ‘You moved Amy here against her wishes?’

‘Against her wishes? No. We did what we had to do. I had no job, Amy had no job, my mom was sick. I’d do the same for Amy.’

‘That’s nice of you to say,’ Boney muttered. And suddenly she reminded me exactly of Amy: the damning below-breath retorts uttered at the perfect level, so I was pretty sure I heard them but couldn’t swear to it. And if I asked what I was supposed to ask – What did you say? – she’d always say the same: Nothing. I glared at Boney, my mouth tight, and then I thought: Maybe this is part of the plan, to see how you act toward angry, dissatisfied women. I tried to make myself smile, but it only seemed to repulse her more.

‘And you’re able to afford this, Amy working, not working, whatever, you could swing it financially?’ Gilpin asked.

‘We’ve had some money problems of late,’ I said. ‘When we first married, Amy was wealthy, like extremely wealthy.’

‘Right,’ said Boney, ‘those Amazing Amy books.’

‘Yeah, they made a ton of money in the eighties and nineties. But the publisher dropped them. Said Amy had run her course. And everything went south. Amy’s parents had to borrow money from us to stay afloat.’

‘From your wife, you mean?’

‘Right, fine. And then we used most of the last of Amy’s trust fund to buy the bar, and I’ve been supporting us since.’

‘So when you married Amy, she was very wealthy,’ Gilpin said. I nodded. I was thinking of the hero narrative: the husband who sticks by his wife through the horrible decline in her family’s circumstances.

‘So you had a very nice lifetstyle.’

‘Yeah, it was great, it was awesome.’

‘And now she’s near broke, and you’re dealing with a very different lifestyle than what you married into. What you signed on for.’

I realized my narrative was completely wrong.

‘Because, okay, we’ve been going over your finances, Nick, and dang, they don’t look good,’ Gilpin started, almost turning the accusation into a concern, a worry.

‘The Bar is doing decent,’ I said. ‘It usually takes a new business three or four years to get out of the red.’

‘It’s those credit cards that got my attention,’ Boney said. ‘Two hundred and twelve thousand dollars in credit-card debt. I mean, it took my breath away.’ She fanned a stack of red-ink statements at me.

My parents were fanatics about credit cards – used only for special purposes, paid off every month. We don’t buy what we can’t pay for; it was the Dunne family motto.

‘We don’t – I don’t, at least – but I don’t think Amy would—Can I see those?’ I stuttered, just as a low-flying bomber rattled the windowpanes. A plant on the mantel promptly lost five pretty purple leaves. Forced into silence for ten brain-shaking seconds, we all watched the leaves flutter to the ground.

‘Yet this great brawl we’re supposed to believe happened in here, and not a petal was on the floor then,’ Gilpin muttered disgustedly.

I took the papers from Boney and saw my name, only my name, versions of it – Nick Dunne, Lance Dunne, Lance N. Dunne, Lance Nicholas Dunne, on a dozen different credit cards, balances from $62.78 to $45,602.33, all in various states of lateness, terse threats printed in ominous lettering across the top: pay now.

‘Holy fuck! This is, like, identity theft or something!’ I said. ‘They’re not mine. I mean, freakin’ look at some of this stuff: I don’t even golf.’ Someone had paid over seven thousand dollars for a set of clubs. ‘Anyone can tell you: I really don’t golf.’ I tried to make it sound self-effacing – yet another thing I’m not good at – but the detectives weren’t biting.

‘You know Noelle Hawthorne?’ Boney asked. ‘The friend of Amy’s you told us to check out?’

‘Wait, I want to talk about the bills, because they are not mine,’ I said. ‘I mean, please, seriously, we need to track this down.’

‘We’ll track it down, no problem,’ Boney said, expressionless. ‘Noelle Hawthorne?’

‘Right. I told you to check her out because she’s been all over town, wailing about Amy.’

Boney arched an eyebrow. ‘You seem angry about that.’

‘No, like I told you, she seems a little too broken up, like in a fake way. Ostentatious. Attention-seeking. A little obsessed.’

‘We talked to Noelle,’ Boney said. ‘Says your wife was extremely troubled by the marriage, was upset about the money stuff, that she worried you’d married her for her money. She says your wife worried about your temper.’

‘I don’t know why Noelle would say that; I don’t think she and Amy ever exchanged more than five words.’

‘That’s funny, because the Hawthornes’ living room is covered with photos of Noelle and your wife.’ Boney frowned. I frowned too: actual real pictures of her and Amy?

Boney continued: ‘At the St. Louis zoo last October, on a picnic with the triplets, on a weekend float trip this past June. As in last month.’

‘Amy has never uttered the name Noelle in the entire time we’ve lived here. I’m serious.’ I scanned my brain over this past June and came upon a weekend I went away with Andie, told Amy I was doing a boys’ trip to St. Louis. I’d returned home to find her pink-cheeked and angry, claiming a weekend of bad cable and bored reading on the deck. And she was on a float trip? No. I couldn’t think of anything Amy would care for less than the typical midwestern float trip: beers bobbing in coolers tied to canoes, loud music, drunk frat boys, campgrounds dotted with vomit. ‘Are you sure it was my wife in those photos?’

They gave each other a he serious? look.

‘Nick,’ Boney said. ‘We have no reason to believe that the woman in the photos who looks exactly like your wife and who Noelle Hawthorne, a mother of three, your wife’s best friend here in town, says is your wife, is not your wife.’

‘Your wife who – I should say – according to Noelle, you married for money,’ Gilpin added.

‘I’m not joking,’ I said. ‘Anyone these days can doctor photos on a laptop.’

‘Okay, so a minute ago you were sure Desi Collings was involved, and now you’ve moved on to Noelle Hawthorne,’ Gilpin said. ‘It seems like you’re really casting about for someone to blame.’

‘Besides me? Yes, I am. Look, I did not marry Amy for her money. You really should talk more with Amy’s parents. They know me, they know my character.’ They don’t know everything, I thought, my stomach seizing. Boney was watching me; she looked sort of sorry for me. Gilpin didn’t even seem to be listening.

‘You bumped up the life insurance coverage on your wife to one-point-two million,’ Gilpin said with mock weariness. He even pulled a hand over his long, thin-jawed face.

‘Amy did that herself!’ I said quickly. The cops both just looked at me and waited. ‘I mean, I filed the paperwork, but it was Amy’s idea. She insisted. I swear, I couldn’t care less, but Amy said – she said, given the change in her income, it made her feel more secure or something, or it was a smart business decision. Fuck, I don’t know, I don’t know why she wanted it. I didn’t ask her to.’

‘Two months ago, someone did a search on your laptop,’ Boney continued. ‘Body Float Mississippi River. Can you explain that?’

I took two deep breaths, nine seconds to pull myself together.

‘God, that was just a dumb book idea,’ I said. ‘I was thinking about writing a book.’

‘Huh,’ Boney replied.

‘Look, here’s what I think is happening,’ I began. ‘I think a lot of people watch these news programs where the husband is always this awful guy who kills his wife, and they are seeing me through that lens, and some really innocent, normal things are being twisted. This is turning into a witch hunt.’

‘That’s how you explain those credit-card bills?’ Gilpin asked.

‘I told you, I can’t explain the fucking credit-card bills because I have nothing to do with them. It’s your fucking job to figure out where they came from!’

They sat silent, side by side, waiting.

‘What is currently being done to find my wife?’ I asked. ‘What leads are you exploring, besides me?’

The house began shaking, the sky ripped, and through the back window, we could see a jet shooting past, right over the river, buzzing us.

‘F-10,’ Rhonda said.

‘Nah, too small,’ Gilpin said. ‘It’s got to be—’

‘It’s an F-10.’

Boney leaned toward me, hands entwined. ‘It’s our job to make sure you are in the hundred percent clear, Nick,’ she said. ‘I know you want that too. Now if you can just help us out with the few little tangles – because that’s what they are, they keep tripping us up.’

‘Maybe it’s time I got a lawyer.’

The cops exchanged another look, as if they’d settled a bet.





AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE

OCTOBER 21, 2011

– Diary entry –

Nick’s mom is dead. I haven’t been able to write because Nick’s mom is dead, and her son has come unmoored. Sweet, tough Maureen. She was up and moving around until days before she died, refusing to discuss any sort of slowdown. ‘I just want to live until I can’t anymore,’ she said. She’d gotten into knitting caps for other chemo patients (she herself was done done done after one round, no interest in prolonging life if it meant ‘more tubes’), so I’ll remember her always surrounded by bright knots of wool: red and yellow and green, and her fingers moving, the needles click-clacking while she talked in her contented-cat voice, all deep, sleepy purr.

And then one morning in September she woke but didn’t really wake, didn’t become Maureen. She was a bird-sized woman overnight, that fast, all wrinkles and shell, her eyes darting around the room, unable to place anything, including herself. So then came the hospice, a gently lit, cheerful place with paintings of women in bonnets and rolling hills of bounty, and snack machines, and small coffees. The hospice was not expected to fix her or help her but just to make sure she died comfortably, and just three days later, she did. Very matter-of-fact, the way Maureen would have wanted it (although I’m sure she would have rolled her eyes at that phrase: the way Maureen would have wanted it).

Her wake was modest but nice – with hundreds of people, her look-alike sister from Omaha bustling by proxy, pouring coffee and Baileys and handing out cookies and telling funny stories about Mo. We buried her on a gusty, warm morning, Go and Nick leaning in to each other as I stood nearby, feeling intrusive. That night in bed, Nick let me put my arms around him, his back to me, but after a few