Gone Girl: A Novel (28 page)

“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 blow-stack. 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 lifestyle.”

“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.”