Gone Girl: A Novel (12 page)

Then I unroll the crumpled piece of notebook paper and see a girl’s handwriting—Hannah—and a phone number. I wish it were like the movies, the name something silly, CanDee or Bambie, something you
could roll your eyes at. Misti with two hearts over the I’s. But it’s Hannah, which is a real woman, presumably like me. Nick has never cheated on me, he has sworn it, but I also know he has ample opportunity. I could ask him about Hannah, and he’d say,
I have no idea why she gave me her number, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I took it
. Which may be true. Or not. He could cheat on me and he would never tell me, and he would think less and less of me for not figuring it out. He would see me across the breakfast table, innocently slurping cereal, and know that I am a fool, and how can anyone respect a fool?

Now I am crying again, with Hannah in my hand.

It’s a very female thing, isn’t it, to take one boys’ night and snowball it into a marital infidelity that will destroy our marriage?

I don’t know what I am supposed to do. I’m feeling like a shrill fishwife, or a foolish doormat—I don’t know which. I don’t want to be angry, I can’t even figure out if I should be angry. I consider checking in to a hotel, let him wonder about
me
for a change.

I stay where I am for a few minutes, and then I take a breath and wade into our booze-humid bedroom, and when I get in bed, he turns to me and wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck, and at the same time we both say, “I’m sorry.”

F
lashbulbs exploded, and I dropped the smile, but not soon enough. I felt a wave of heat roll up my neck, and beads of sweat broke out on my nose.
Stupid, Nick, stupid
. And then, just as I was pulling myself together, the press conference was over, and it was too late to make any other impression.

I walked out with the Elliotts, my head ducked low as more flashbulbs popped. I was almost to the exit when Gilpin trotted across the room toward me, flagging me down: “Canna grab a minute, Nick?”

He updated me as we headed toward a back office: “We checked out that house in your neighborhood that was broken into, looks like people camped out there, so we’ve got lab there. And we found another house on the edge of your complex, had some squatters.”

“I mean, that’s what worries me,” I said. “Guys are camped out everywhere. This whole town is overrun with pissed-off, unemployed people.”

Carthage was, until a year ago, a company town and that company was the sprawling Riverway Mall, a tiny city unto itself that once employed four thousand locals—one-fifth the population. It was built in 1985, a destination mall meant to attract shoppers from all over the Middle West. I still remember the opening day: me and Go, Mom and Dad, watching the festivities from the very back of the crowd in the vast tarred parking lot, because our father always wanted to be able to leave quickly, from anywhere. Even at baseball games, we parked by the exit and left at the eighth inning, me and Go a predictable
set of mustard-smeared whines, petulant and sun-fevered:
We never get to see the end
. But this time our faraway vantage was desirable, because we got to take in the full scope of the Event: the impatient crowd, leaning collectively from one foot to another; the mayor atop a red-white-and-blue dais; the booming words
—pride, growth, prosperity, success
—rolling over us, soldiers on the battlefield of consumerism, armed with vinyl-covered checkbooks and quilted handbags. And the doors opening. And the rush into the air-conditioning, the Muzak, the smiling salespeople who were our neighbors. My father actually let us go inside that day, actually waited in line and bought us something that day: sweaty paper cups brimming with Orange Julius.

For a quarter century, the Riverway Mall was a given. Then the recession hit, washed away the Riverway store by store until the whole mall finally went bust. It is now two million square feet of echo. No company came to claim it, no businessman promised a resurrection, no one knew what to do with it or what would become of all the people who’d worked there, including my mother, who lost her job at Shoe-Be-Doo-Be—two decades of kneeling and kneading, of sorting boxes and collecting moist foot hosiery, gone without ceremony.

The downfall of the mall basically bankrupted Carthage. People lost their jobs, they lost their houses. No one could see anything good coming anytime soon.
We never get to see the end
. Except it looked like this time Go and I would. We all would.

The bankruptcy matched my psyche perfectly. For several years, I had been bored. Not a whining, restless child’s boredom (although I was not above that) but a dense, blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word
derivative
as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed.
Mona Lisa
, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn’t immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé:
Seeeen it
. I’ve literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a
way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script.

It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters.

And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls.

It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else.

I would have done anything to feel real again.

Gilpin opened the door to the same room where they’d questioned me the night before. In the center of the table sat Amy’s silvery gift box.

I stood staring at the box sitting in the middle of the table, so ominous in this new setting. A sense of dread descended on me. Why hadn’t I found it before? I should have found it.

“Go ahead,” Gilpin said. “We wanted you to take a look at this.”

I opened it as gingerly as if a head might be inside. I found only a creamy blue envelope marked
FIRST CLUE
.

Gilpin smirked. “Imagine our confusion: A missing persons case, and here we find an envelope marked
FIRST CLUE
.”

“It’s for a treasure hunt that my wife—”

“Right. For your anniversary. Your father-in-law mentioned it.”

I opened the envelope, pulled out a thick sky-blue piece of paper—Amy’s signature stationery—folded once. Bile crept up my throat. These treasure hunts had always amounted to a single question: Who is Amy? (What is my wife thinking? What was important to her this past year? What moments made her happiest? Amy, Amy, Amy, let’s think about Amy.)

I read the first clue with clenched teeth. Given our marital mood the past year, it was going to make me look awful. I didn’t need anything else that made me look awful.

It was an itinerary for an alternate life. If things had gone according to my wife’s vision, yesterday she would have hovered near me as I read this poem, watching me expectantly, the hope emanating from her like a fever:
Please get this. Please get me
.

And she would finally say,
So?
And I would say:

“Oh, I actually know this! She must mean my office. At the junior college. I’m an adjunct professor there. Huh. I mean, it must be, right?” I squinted and reread. “She took it easy on me this year.”

“You want me to drive you over?” Gilpin asked.

“Nah, I’ve got Go’s car.”

“I’ll follow you then.”

“You think it’s important?”

“Well, it shows her movements the day or two before she went missing. So it’s not unimportant.” He looked at the stationery. “It’s sweet, you know? Like something out of a movie: a treasure hunt. My wife and I, we give each other a card and maybe get a bite to eat. Sounds like you guys were doing it right. Preserve the romance.”

Then Gilpin looked at his shoes, got bashful, and jingled his keys to leave.

The college had rather grandly presented me with a coffin of an office, big enough for a desk, two chairs, some shelves. Gilpin and I wended our way through the summer-school students, a combination of impossibly young kids (bored yet busy, their fingers clicking out texts or dialing up music) and earnest older people I had to assume were mall layoffs, trying to retrain for a new career.

“What do you teach?” Gilpin asked.

“Journalism, magazine journalism.” A girl texting and walking forgot the nuances of the latter and almost ran into me. She stepped to the side without glancing up. It made me feel cranky,
off my lawn!
old.

“I thought you didn’t do journalism anymore.”

“He who can’t do …” I smiled.

I unlocked my office, stepped into the close-smelling, dust-moted air. I’d taken the summer off; it had been weeks since I’d been here. On my desk sat another envelope, marked
SECOND CLUE
.

“Your key always on your key chain?” Gilpin asked.

“Yup.”

“So Amy could have borrowed that to get in?”

I tore down the side of the envelope.

“And we have a spare at home.” Amy made doubles of everything—I tended to misplace keys, credit cards, cell phones, but I didn’t want to tell Gilpin this, get another baby-of-the-family jab. “Why?”

“Oh, just wanted to make sure she wouldn’t have had to go through, I don’t know, a janitor or someone.”

“No Freddy Krueger types here, that I’ve noticed.”

“Never saw those movies,” Gilpin replied.

Inside the envelope were two folded slips of paper. One was marked with a heart; the other was labeled
CLUE
.

Two
notes. Different. My stomach clenched. God knew what Amy was going to say. I opened the note with the heart. I wished I hadn’t let Gilpin come, and then I caught the first words.

My mouth watered. Gilpin was reading over my shoulder, and he actually sighed. “Sweet lady,” he said. Then he cleared his throat. “Um, hah, these yours?”

He used the eraser end of a pencil to pick up a pair of women’s underwear (technically, they were panties—stringy, lacy, red—but I know women get creeped out by that word—just Google
hate the word
panties). They’d been hanging off a knob on the AC unit.

“Oh, jeez. That’s embarrassing.”

Gilpin waited for an explanation.

“Uh, one time Amy and I, well, you read her note. We kinda, you know, you sometimes gotta spice things up a little.”

Gilpin grinned. “Oh I get it, randy professor and naughty student. I get it. You two really were doing it right.” I reached for the underwear, but Gilpin was already producing an evidence bag from his pocket and sliding them in. “Just a precaution,” he said inexplicably.

“Oh, please don’t,” I said. “Amy would die—” I caught myself.

“Don’t worry, Nick, it’s all protocol, my friend. You wouldn’t believe the hoops we gotta jump through.
Just in case, just in case
. Ridiculous. What’s the clue say?”

I let him read over my shoulder again, his jarringly fresh smell distracting me.

“So what’s that one mean?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I lied.

I finally rid myself of Gilpin, then drove aimlessly down the highway so I could make a call on my disposable. No pickup. I didn’t leave a message. I sped for a while longer, as if I could get anywhere, then I turned around and drove the forty-five minutes back toward town to meet the Elliotts at the Days Inn. I walked into a lobby packed with members of the Midwest Payroll Vendors Association—wheelie bags parked everywhere, their owners slurping complimentary drinks in small plastic cups and networking, forced guttural laughs and pockets fished for business cards. I rode up the elevator with four men, all balding and khaki’d and golf-shirted, lanyards bouncing off round married bellies.

Marybeth opened the door while talking on her cell phone; she pointed toward the TV and whispered to me, “We have a cold-cut tray if you want, sweetheart,” then went into the bathroom and closed the door, her murmurs continuing.

She emerged a few minutes later, just in time for the local five o’clock news from St. Louis, which led with Amy’s disappearance. “Perfect photo,” Marybeth murmured at the screen, where Amy peered back at us. “People will see it and really know what Amy looks like.”