Gone Girl: A Novel (30 page)

“We’re under a lot of pressure, baby,” I say. “We’ve had a few bumps, and I know a lot of it is my fault. I just feel so at loose ends here …”

“So we’re going to be one of those couples who has a kid to fix their marriage? Because that always works out so well.”

“We’ll have a baby because—”

His eyes go dark, canine, and he grabs me by the arms again.

“Just … No, Amy. Not right now. I can’t take one more bit of stress. I can’t handle one more thing to worry about. I am cracking under the pressure. I will snap.”

For once I know he’s telling the truth.

T
he first forty-eight hours are key in any investigation. Amy had been gone, now, almost a week. A candlelight vigil would be held this evening in Tom Sawyer Park, which, according to the press, was “a favorite place of Amy Elliott Dunne’s.” (I’d never known Amy to set foot in the park; despite the name, it is not remotely quaint. Generic, bereft of trees, with a sandbox that’s always full of animal feces; it is utterly un-Twainy.) In the last twenty-four hours, the story had gone national—it was everywhere, just like that.

God bless the faithful Elliotts. Marybeth phoned me last night, as I was trying to recover from the bombshell police interrogation. My mother-in-law had seen the
Ellen Abbott
show and pronounced the woman “an opportunistic ratings whore.” Nevertheless, we’d spent most of today strategizing how to handle the media.

The media (my former clan, my people!) was shaping its story, and the media loved the
Amazing Amy
angle and the long-married Elliotts. No snarky commentary on the dismantling of the series or the authors’ near-bankruptcy—right now it was all hearts and flowers for the Elliotts. The media loved them.

Me, not so much. The media was already turning up
items of concern
. Not only the stuff that had been leaked—my lack of alibi, the possibly “staged” crime scene—but actual personality traits. They reported that back in high school, I’d never dated one girl longer than a few months and thus was clearly a ladies’ man. They found out we had my father in Comfort Hill and that I rarely visited, and thus I
was an ingrate dad-abandoner. “It’s a problem—they don’t like you,” Go said after every bit of news coverage. “It’s a real, real problem, Lance.” The media had resurrected my first name, which I’d hated since grade school, stifled at the start of every school year when the teacher called roll: “It’s Nick, I go by Nick!” Every September, an opening-day rite: “Nick-I-go-by-Nick!” Always some smart-ass kid would spend recess parading around like a mincing gallant: “Hi, I’m Laaaance,” in a flowy-shirted voice. Then it would be forgotten again until the following year.

But not now. Now it was all over the news, the dreaded three-name judgment reserved for serial killers and assassins—Lance Nicholas Dunne—and there was no one I could interrupt.

Rand and Marybeth Elliott, Go, and I carpooled to the vigil together. It was unclear how much information the Elliotts were receiving, how many damning updates about their son-in-law. I knew they were aware of the “staged” scene: “I’m going to get some of my own people in there, and they’ll tell us just the opposite—that it clearly
was
the scene of a struggle,” Rand said confidently. “The truth is malleable; you just need to pick the right expert.”

Rand didn’t know about the other stuff, the credit cards and the life insurance and the blood and Noelle, my wife’s bitter best friend with the damning claims: abuse, greed, fear. She was booked on
Ellen Abbott
tonight, post-vigil. Noelle and Ellen could be mutually disgusted by me for the viewing audience.

Not everyone was repulsed by me. In the past week, The Bar’s business was booming: Hundreds of customers packed in to sip beers and nibble popcorn at the place owned by Lance Nicholas Dunne, the maybe-killer. Go had to hire four new kids to tend The Bar; she’d dropped by once and said she couldn’t go again, couldn’t stand seeing how packed it was, fucking gawkers, ghouls, all drinking our booze and swapping stories about me. It was disgusting. Still, Go reasoned, the money would be helpful if …

If. Amy gone six days, and we were all thinking in
if
s.

We approached the park in a car gone silent except for Marybeth’s constant nail drumming on the window.

“Feels almost like a double date.” Rand laughed, the laughter curving toward the hysterical: high-pitched and squeaky. Rand Elliott, genius psychologist, best-selling author, friend to all, was unraveling.

Marybeth had taken to self-medication: shots of clear liquor administered with absolute precision, enough to take the edge off but stay sharp. Rand, on the other hand, was literally losing his head; I half expected to see it shoot off his shoulders on a jack-in-the-box spring—cuckoooooo! Rand’s schmoozy nature had turned manic: He got desperately chummy with everyone he met, wrapping his arms around cops, reporters, volunteers. He was particularly tight with our Days Inn “liaison,” a gawky, shy kid named Donnie whom Rand liked to razz and inform he was doing so. “Ah, I’m just razzing you, Donnie,” he’d say, and Donnie would break into a joyous grin.

“Can’t that kid go get validation somewhere else?” I groused to Go the other night. She said I was just jealous that my father figure liked someone better. I was.

Marybeth patted Rand’s back as we walked toward the park, and I thought about how much I wanted someone to do that, just a quick touch, and I suddenly let out a gasp-sob, one quick teary moan. I wanted someone, but I wasn’t sure if it was Andie or Amy.

“Nick?” Go said. She raised a hand toward my shoulder, but I shrugged her off.

“Sorry. Wow, sorry for that,” I said. “Weird outburst, very un-Dunne-y.”

“No problem. We’re both coming undone-y,” Go said, and looked away. Since discovering my
situation
—which is what we’d taken to calling my infidelity—she’d gotten a bit removed, her eyes distant, her face a constant mull. I was trying very hard not to resent it.

As we entered the park, the camera crews were everywhere, not just local anymore but network. The Dunnes and the Elliotts walked along the perimeter of the crowd, Rand smiling and nodding like a visiting dignitary. Boney and Gilpin appeared almost immediately, took to our heels like friendly pointer dogs; they were becoming familiar, furniture, which was clearly the idea. Boney was wearing the same clothes she wore to any public event: a sensible black skirt, a gray-striped blouse, barrettes clipping either side of her limp hair.
I got a girl named Bony Moronie …
The night was steamy; under each of Boney’s armpits was a dark smiley face of perspiration. She actually grinned at me as if yesterday, the accusations—they were accusations, weren’t they?—hadn’t happened.

The Elliotts and I filed up the steps to a rickety makeshift stage. I
looked back toward my twin and she nodded at me and pantomimed a big breath, and I remembered to breathe. Hundreds of faces were turned toward us, along with clicking, flashing cameras.
Don’t smile
, I told myself.
Do not smile
.

From the front of dozens of
Find Amy
T-shirts, my wife studied me.

Go had said I needed to make a speech (“You need some humanizing, fast”) so I did, I walked up to the microphone. It was too low, mid-belly, and I wrestled with it a few seconds, and it raised only an inch, the kind of malfunction that would normally infuriate me, but I could no longer be infuriated in public, so I took a breath and leaned down and read the words that my sister had written for me: “My wife, Amy Dunne, has been missing for almost a week. I cannot possibly convey the anguish our family feels, the deep hole in our lives left by Amy’s disappearance. Amy is the love of my life, she is the heart of her family. For those who have yet to meet her, she is funny, and charming, and kind. She is wise and warm. She is my helpmate and partner in every way.”

I looked up into the crowd and, like magic, spotted Andie, a disgusted look on her face, and I quickly glanced back at my notes.

“Amy is the woman I want to grow old with, and I know this will happen.”

PAUSE. BREATHE. NO SMILE. Go had actually written the words on my index card.
Happen happen happen
. My voice echoed out through the speakers, rolling toward the river.

“We ask you to contact us with any information. We light candles tonight in the hope she comes home soon and safely. I love you, Amy.”

I kept my eyes moving anywhere but Andie. The park sparkled with candles. A moment of silence was supposed to be observed, but babies were crying, and one stumbling homeless man kept asking loudly, “Hey, what is this about? What’s it for?,” and someone would whisper Amy’s name, and the guy would say louder, “What? It’s for
what
?”

From the middle of the crowd, Noelle Hawthorne began moving forward, her triplets affixed, one on a hip, the other two clinging to her skirt, all looking ludicrously tiny to a man who spent no time around children. Noelle forced the crowd to part for her and the children, marching right to the edge of the podium, where she looked up at me. I glared at her—the woman had maligned me—and then I noticed for the first time the swell in her belly and realized she
was pregnant again. For one second, my mouth dropped—four kids under four, sweet Jesus!—and later, that look would be analyzed and debated, most people believing it was a one-two punch of anger and fear.

“Hey,
Nick
.” Her voice caught in the half-raised microphone and boomed out to the audience.

I started to fumble with the mike, but couldn’t find the off switch.

“I just wanted to see your face,” she said, and burst into tears. A wet sob rolled out over the audience, everyone rapt. “Where is she? What have you done with Amy? What have you done with your wife!”

Wife, wife
, her voice echoed. Two of her alarmed children began to wail.

Noelle couldn’t talk for a second, she was crying so hard, she was wild, furious, and she grabbed the microphone stand and yanked the whole thing down to her level. I debated grabbing it back but
knew
I could do nothing toward this woman in the maternity dress with the three toddlers. I scanned the crowd for Mike Hawthorne
—control your wife
—but he was nowhere. Noelle turned to address the crowd.

“I am Amy’s best friend!”
Friend friend friend
. The words boomed out all over the park along with her children’s keening. “Despite my best efforts, the police don’t seem to be taking me seriously. So I’m taking our cause to this town, this town that Amy loved, that loved her back! This man, Nick Dunne, needs to answer some questions. He needs to tell us what he did to his wife!”

Boney darted from the side of the stage to reach her, and Noelle turned, and the two locked eyes. Boney made a frantic chopping motion at her throat:
Stop talking!

“His
pregnant
wife!”

And no one could see the candles anymore, because the flashbulbs were going berserk. Next to me, Rand made a noise like a balloon squeak. Down below me, Boney put her fingers between her eyebrows as if stanching a headache. I was seeing everyone in frantic strobe shots that matched my pulse.

I looked out into the crowd for Andie, saw her staring at me, her face pink and twisted, her cheeks damp, and as we caught each other’s eyes, she mouthed “Asshole!” and stumbled back away through the crowd.

“We should go.” My sister, suddenly beside me, whispering in my ear, tugging at my arm. The cameras flashing at me as I stood like
some Frankenstein’s monster, fearful and agitated by the villager torches.
Flash, flash
. We started moving, breaking into two parts: my sister and I fleeing toward Go’s car, the Elliotts standing with jaws agape, on the platform, left behind, save yourselves. The reporters pelted the question over and over at me.
Nick, was Amy pregnant? Nick, were you upset Amy was pregnant?
Me, streaking out of the park, ducking like I was caught in hail:
Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant
, the word pulsing in the summer night in time to the cicadas.

DIARY ENTRY