Gone Girl (39 page)

‘Marybeth, he has to live here,’ Rand said.

‘I still don’t understand how – I mean, what if the police didn’t find everything? What if … I don’t know. It seems like they gave up. If they just let the house go. Open to anyone.’

‘I’m sure they got everything,’ Rand said, and squeezed her hand. ‘Why don’t we ask if we can look at Amy’s things so you can pick something special, okay?’ He glanced at me. ‘Would that be all right, Nick? It’d be a comfort to have something of hers.’ He turned back to his wife. ‘That blue sweater Nana knitted for her.’

‘I don’t want the goddamn blue sweater, Rand!’

She flung his hand off, began pacing around the room, picking up items. She pushed the ottoman with a toe. ‘This is the ottoman, Nick?’ she asked. ‘The one they said was flipped over but it shouldn’t have been?’

‘That’s the ottoman.’

She stopped pacing, kicked it again, and watched it remain upright.

‘Marybeth, I’m sure Nick is exhausted’ – Rand glanced at me with a meaningful smile – ‘like we all are. I think we should do what we came here for and—’

‘This is what I came here for, Rand. Not some stupid sweater of Amy’s to snuggle up against like I’m three. I want my daughter. I don’t want her stuff. Her stuff means nothing to me. I want Nick to tell us what the hell is going on, because this whole thing is starting to stink. I never, I never – I never felt so foolish in my life.’ She began crying, swiping away the tears, clearly furious at herself for crying. ‘We trusted you with our daughter. We trusted you, Nick. Just tell us the truth!’ She put a quivering index finger under my nose. ‘Is it true? Did you not want the baby? Did you not love Amy anymore? Did you hurt her?’

I wanted to smack her. Marybeth and Rand had raised Amy. She was literally their work product. They had created her. I wanted to say the words
Your daughter is the monster here
, but I couldn’t –
not until we’d told the police – and so I remained dumbfounded, trying to think of what I could say. But I looked like I was stonewalling. ‘Marybeth, I would never—’

‘
I would never, I could never
, that’s all I hear from your goddamn
mouth
. You know, I hate even
looking
at you anymore. I really do. There’s something wrong with you. There’s something missing inside you, to act the way you’ve been acting. Even if it turns out you’re totally blameless, I will never forgive you for how casually you’ve taken all of this. You’d think you mislaid a damn umbrella! After all Amy gave up for you, after all she did for you, and this is what she gets in return. It—You – I don’t believe you, Nick. That’s what I came here to let you know. I don’t believe in you. Not anymore.’

She began sobbing, turned away, and flung herself out the front door as the thrilled cameramen filmed her. She got in the car, and two reporters pressed against the window, knocking on it, trying to get her to say something. In the living room, we could hear them repeating and repeating her name.
Marybeth – Marybeth—

Rand remained, hands in his pockets, trying to figure out what role to play. Tanner’s voice –
we have to keep the Elliotts on our side
– was Greek-chorusing in my ear.

Rand opened his mouth, and I headed him off. ‘Rand, tell me what I can do.’

‘Just say it, Nick.’

‘Say
what
?’

‘I don’t want to ask, and you don’t want to answer. I get that. But I need to hear you say it. You didn’t kill our daughter.’

He laughed and teared up at the same time. ‘Jesus Christ, I can’t keep my head straight,’ Rand said. He was turning pink, flushed, a nuclear sunburn. ‘I can’t figure out how this is happening. I can’t figure it out!’ He was still smiling. A tear dribbled on his chin and fell to his shirt collar. ‘Just say it, Nick.’

‘Rand, I did not kill Amy or hurt her in any way.’ He kept his eyes on me. ‘Do you believe me, that I didn’t physically
harm
her?’

Rand laughed again. ‘You know what I was about to say? I was about to say I don’t know what to believe anymore. And then I thought, that’s someone else’s line. That’s a line from a movie, not something I should be saying, and I wonder for a second, am I in a movie? Can I stop being in this movie? Then I know I can’t. But for a second, you think,
I’ll say something different, and this will all change
. But it won’t, will it?’

With one quick Jack Russell headshake, he turned and followed his wife to the car.

Instead of feeling sad, I felt alarmed. Before the Elliotts were even out of my driveway, I was thinking:
We need to go to the cops quickly, soon
. Before the Elliotts started discussing their loss of faith in public. I needed to prove my wife was not who she pretended to be.
Not Amazing Amy: Avenging Amy
. I flashed to Tommy O’Hara – the guy who called the tip line three times, the guy Amy had accused of raping her. Tanner had gotten some background on him: He wasn’t the macho Irishman I’d pictured from his name, not a fire-fighter or cop. He wrote for a humor website based in Brooklyn, a decent one, and his contributor photo revealed him to be a scrawny guy with dark-framed glasses and an uncomfortable amount of thick black hair, wearing a wry grin and a T-shirt for a band called the Bingos.

He picked up on the first ring. ‘Yeah?’

‘This is Nick Dunne. You called me about my wife. Amy Dunne. Amy Elliott. I have to talk with you.’

I heard a pause, waited for him to hang up on me like Hilary Handy.

‘Call me back in ten minutes.’

I did. The background was a bar, I knew the sound well enough: the murmur of drinkers, the clatter of ice cubes, the strange pops of noise as people called for drinks or hailed friends. I had a burst of homesickness for my own place.

‘Okay, thanks,’ he said. ‘Had to get to a bar. Seemed like a Scotch conversation.’ His voice got progressively closer, thicker: I could picture him huddling protectively over a drink, cupping his mouth to the phone.

‘So,’ I began, ‘I got your messages.’

‘Right. She’s still missing, right? Amy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I ask you what you think has happened?’ he said. ‘To Amy?’

Fuck it, I wanted a drink. I went into my kitchen – next best thing to my bar – and poured myself one. I’d been trying to be more careful about the booze, but it felt so good: the tang of a Scotch, a dark room with the blinding sun right outside.

‘Can I ask you why you called?’ I replied.

‘I’ve been watching the coverage,’ he said. ‘You’re fucked.’

‘I am. I wanted to talk to you because I thought it was … interesting that you’d try to get in touch. Considering. The rape charge.’

‘Ah, you know about that,’ he said.

‘I know there was a rape charge, but I don’t necessarily believe
you’re a rapist. I wanted to hear what you had to say.’

‘Yeah.’ I heard him take a gulp of his Scotch, kill it, shake the ice cubes around. ‘I caught the story on the news one night. Your story. Amy’s. I was in bed, eating Thai. Minding my own business. Totally fucked me in the head.
Her
after all these years.’ He called to the bartender for another. ‘So my lawyer said no way I should talk to you, but … what can I say? I’m too fucking nice. I can’t let you twist. God, I wish you could still smoke in bars. This is a Scotch
and
cigarette conversation.’

‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘About the assault charge. The rape.’

‘Like I said, man, I’ve seen the coverage, the media is shitting all over you. I mean, you’re
the guy
. So I should leave well enough alone – I don’t need that girl back in my life. Even, like, tangentially. But shit. I wish someone had done me the favor.’

‘So do me the favor,’ I said.

‘First of all, she dropped the charges – you know that, right?’

‘I know. Did you do it?’

‘Fuck you. Of course I didn’t do it. Did
you
do it?’

‘No.’

‘Well.’

Tommy called again for his Scotch. ‘Let me ask: Your marriage was good? Amy was happy?’

I stayed silent.

‘You don’t have to answer, but I’m going to guess no. Amy was not happy. For whatever reason. I’m not even going to ask. I can guess, but I’m not going to ask. But I know you must know this: Amy likes to play God when she’s not happy. Old Testament God.’

‘Meaning?’

‘She doles out punishment,’ Tommy said. ‘Hard.’ He laughed into the phone. ‘I mean, you should see me,’ he said. ‘I do not look like some alpha-male rapist. I look like a twerp. I am a twerp. My goto karaoke song is “Sister Christian,” for crying out loud. I weep during
Godfather II
. Every time.’ He coughed after a swallow. Seemed like a moment to loosen him up.

‘Fredo?’ I asked.

‘Fredo, man, yeah. Poor Fredo.’

‘Stepped over.’

Most men have sports as the lingua-franca of dudes. This was the film-geek equivalent to discussing some great play in a famous football game. We both knew the line, and the fact that we both knew it eliminated a good day’s worth of
are we copacetic
small talk.

He took another drink. ‘It was so fucking absurd.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You’re not taping this or anything, right? No one’s listening in? Because I don’t want that.’

‘Just us. I’m on your side.’

‘So I meet Amy at a party – this is, like, seven years ago now – and she’s so damn cool. Just hilarious and weird and … cool. We just clicked, you know, and I don’t click with a lot of girls, at least not girls who look like Amy. So I’m thinking … well, first I’m thinking I’m being punked. Where’s the catch, you know? But we start dating, and we date a few months, two, three months, and then I find out the catch: She’s not the girl I thought I was dating. She can
quote
funny things, but she doesn’t actually like funny things. She’d rather not laugh, anyway. In fact, she’d rather that I not laugh either, or be funny, which is awkward since it’s my job, but to her, it’s all a waste of time. I mean, I can’t even figure out why she started dating me in the first place, because it seems pretty clear that she doesn’t even like me. Does that make sense?’

I nodded, swallowed a gulp of Scotch. ‘Yeah. It does.’

‘So, I start making excuses not to hang out so much. I don’t call it off, because I’m an idiot, and she’s gorgeous. I’m hoping it might turn around. But you know, I’m making excuses fairly regularly: I’m stuck at work, I’m on deadline, I have a friend in town, my monkey is sick, whatever. And I start seeing this other girl, kinda sorta seeing her, very casual, no big deal. Or so I
think
. But Amy finds out – how, I still don’t know, for all I know, she was staking out my apartment. But …
shit
…’

‘Take a drink.’

We both took a swallow.

‘Amy comes over to my place one night – I’d been seeing this other girl like a month – and Amy comes over, and she’s all back like she used to be. She’s got some bootleg DVD of a comic I like, an underground performance in Durham, and she’s got a sack of burgers, and we watch the DVD, and she’s got her leg flopped over mine, and then she’s nestling into me, and … sorry. She’s your wife. My main point is: The girl knew how to work me. And we end up …’

‘You had sex.’

‘
Consensual
sex, yes. And she leaves and everything is fine. Kiss goodbye at the door, the whole shebang.’

‘Then what?’

‘The next thing I know, two cops are at my door, and they’ve
done a rape kit on Amy, and she has “wounds consistent with forcible rape.” And she has ligature marks on her wrists, and when they search my apartment, there on the headboard of my bed are two ties – like, neckties – tucked down near the mattress, and the ties are, quote, “consistent with the ligature marks.”’

‘Had you tied her up?’

‘No, the sex wasn’t even that …
that
, you know? I was totally caught off guard. She must have tied them there when I got up to take a piss or whatever. I mean, I was in some serious shit. It was looking very bad. And then suddenly she dropped the charges. Couple of weeks later, I got a note, anonymous, typed, says:
Maybe next time you’ll think twice
.’

‘And you never heard from her again?’

‘Never heard from her again.’

‘And you didn’t try to press charges against her or anything?’

‘Uh, no. Fuck no. I was just glad she went away. Then last week, I’m eating my Thai food, sitting in my bed, watching the news report. On Amy. On you. Perfect wife, anniversary, no body, a real shitstorm. I swear, I broke out in a sweat. I thought:
That’s Amy, she’s graduated to murder. Holy shit
. I’m serious, man, I bet whatever she’s got cooked up for you, it’s drum-fucking-tight. You should be fucking scared.’

AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE

EIGHT DAYS GONE

I
am wet from the bumper boats; we got more than five dollars’ worth of time because the two sun-stunned teenage girls would rather flip through gossip magazines and smoke cigarettes than try to herd us off the water. So we spent a good thirty minutes on our lawn-mower-motor-propelled ships, ramming each other and turning wild twists, and then we got bored and left of our own accord.

Greta, Jeff, and I, an odd crew in a strange place. Greta and Jeff have become good friends in just a day, which is how people do it here, where there’s nothing else to do. I think Greta is deciding whether she’ll make Jeff another of her disastrous mating choices. Jeff would like it. He prefers her. She is much prettier than I am, right now, in this place. Cheap pretty. She is wearing a bikini top and jean shorts, with a spare shirt tucked into the back pocket for when she wants to enter a store (T-shirts, wood carvings, decorative rocks) or restaurant (burger, barbecue, taffy). She wants us to get Old West photos taken, but that’s not going to happen for reasons aside from the fact that I don’t want redneck-lake-person lice.

We end up settling for a few rounds on a decrepit miniature golf course. The fake grass is torn off in patches, the alligators and windmills that once moved mechanically are still. Jeff does the honors instead, twirling the windmill, snapping open and shut the gator jaws. Some holes are simply unplayable – the grass rolled up like carpeting, the farmhouse with its beckoning mousehole collapsed in on itself. So we roam between courses in no particular order. No one is even keeping score.