Текст книги "Gone Girl"

Автор книги: Gillian Flynn

Соавторы: Gillian Flynn,Gillian Flynn
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE

SEVEN DAYS GONE

I’m pregnant! Thank you, Noelle Hawthorne, the world knows it now, you little idiot. In the day since she pulled her stunt at my vigil (I do wish she hadn’t upstaged my vigil, though – ugly girls can be such thunder stealers), the hatred against Nick has ballooned. I wonder if he can breathe with all that fury building around him.

I knew the key to big-time coverage, round-the-clock, frantic, bloodlust never-ending Ellen Abbott coverage, would be the pregnancy. Amazing Amy is tempting as is. Amazing Amy knocked up is irresistible. Americans like what is easy, and it’s easy to like pregnant women – they’re like ducklings or bunnies or dogs. Still, it baffles me that these self-righteous, self-enthralled waddlers get such special treatment. As if it’s so hard to spread your legs and let a man ejaculate between them.

You know what is hard? Faking a pregnancy.

Pay attention, because this is impressive. It started with my vacant-brained friend Noelle. The Midwest is full of these types of people: the nice-enoughs. Nice enough but with a soul made of plastic – easy to mold, easy to wipe down. The woman’s entire music collection is formed from Pottery Barn compilations. Her bookshelves are stocked with coffee-table crap: The Irish in America. Mizzou Football: A History in Pictures. We Remember 9/11. Something Dumb with Kittens. I knew I needed a pliant friend for my plan, someone I could load up with awful stories about Nick, someone who would become overly attached to me, someone who’d be easy to manipulate, who wouldn’t think too hard about anything I said because she felt privileged to hear it. Noelle was the obvious choice, and when she told me she was pregnant again – triplets weren’t enough, apparently – I realized I could be pregnant too.

A search online: how to drain your toilet for repair.

Noelle invited for lemonade. Lots of lemonade.

Noelle peeing in my drained, unflushable toilet, each of us so terribly embarrassed!

Me, a small glass jar, the pee in my toilet going into the glass jar.

Me, a well-laid history of needle/blood phobia.

Me, the glass jar of pee hidden in my purse, a doctor’s appointment (oh, I can’t do a blood test, I have a total phobia of needles … urine test, that’ll do fine, thank you).

Me, a pregnancy on my medical record.

Me, running to Noelle with the good news.

Perfect. Nick gets another motive, I get to be sweet missing pregnant lady, my parents suffer even more, Ellen Abbott can’t resist. Honestly, it was thrilling to be selected finally, officially for Ellen among all the hundreds of other cases. It’s sort of like a talent competition: You do the best you can, and then it’s out of your hands, it’s up to the judges.

And, oh, does she hate Nick and love me. I wished my parents weren’t getting such special treatment, though. I watch them on the news coverage, my mom thin and reedy, the cords in her neck like spindly tree branches, always flexed. I see my dad grown ruddy with fear, the eyes a little too wide, the smile squared. He’s a handsome man, usually, but he’s beginning to look like a caricature, a possessed clown doll. I know I should feel sorry for them, but I don’t. I’ve never been more to them than a symbol anyway, the walking ideal. Amazing Amy in the flesh. Don’t screw up, you are Amazing Amy. Our only one. There is an unfair responsibility that comes with being an only child – you grow up knowing you aren’t allowed to disappoint, you’re not even allowed to die. There isn’t a replacement toddling around; you’re it. It makes you desperate to be flawless, and it also makes you drunk with the power. In such ways are despots made.

This morning I stroll over to Dorothy’s office to get a soda. It’s a tiny wood-paneled room. The desk seems to have no purpose other than holding Dorothy’s collection of snow globes from places that seem unworthy of commemoration: Gulf Shores, Alabama, Hilo, Arkansas. When I see the snow globes, I don’t see paradise, I see overheated hillbillies with sunburns tugging along wailing, clumsy children, smacking them with one hand, with the other clutching giant non-biodegradable Styrofoam cups of warm corn-syrupy drinks.

Dorothy has one of those ’70s kitten-in-a-tree posters – Hang in There! She posts her poster with all sincerity. I like to picture her running into some self-impressed Williamsburg bitch, all Bettie Page bangs and pointy glasses, who owns the same poster ironically. I’d like to listen to them try to negotiate each other. Ironic people always dissolve when confronted with earnestness, it’s their kryptonite. Dorothy has another gem taped to the wall by the soda machine, showing a toddler asleep on the toilet – Too Tired to Tinkle. I’ve been thinking about stealing this one, a fingernail under the old yellow tape, while I distract-chat with Dorothy. I bet I could get some decent cash for it on eBay – I’d like to keep some cash coming in – but I can’t do it, because that would create an electronic trail, and I’ve read plenty about those from my myriad true-crime books. Electronic trails are bad: Don’t use a cell phone that’s registered to you, because the cell towers can ping your location. Don’t use your ATM or credit card. Use only public computers, well trafficked. Beware of the number of cameras that can be on any given street, especially near a bank or a busy intersection or bodegas. Not that there are any bodegas down here. There are no cameras either, in our cabin complex. I know – I asked Dorothy, pretending it was a safety issue.

‘Our clients aren’t exactly Big Brother types,’ she said. ‘Not that they’re criminals, but they don’t usually like to be on the radar.’

No, they don’t seem like they’d appreciate that. There’s my friend Jeff, who keeps his odd hours and returns with suspicious amounts of undocumented fish that he stores in massive ice chests. He is literally fishy. At the far cabin is a couple who are probably in their forties, but meth-weathered, so they look at least sixty. They stay inside most of the time, aside from occasional wild-eyed treks to the laundry room – darting across the gravel parking lot with their clothes in trash bags, some sort of tweaky spring cleaning. Hellohello, they say, always twice with two head nods, then continue on their way. The man sometimes has a boa constrictor wrapped around his neck, though the snake is never acknowledged, by me or him. In addition to these regulars, a goodly amount of single women straggle through, usually with bruises. Some seem embarrassed, others horribly sad.

One moved in yesterday, a blond girl, very young, with brown eyes and a split lip. She sat on her front porch – the cabin next to mine – smoking a cigarette, and when we caught each other’s eye, she sat up straight, proud, her chin jutted out. No apology in her. I thought: I need to be like her. I will make a study of her: She is who I can be for a bit – the abused tough girl hiding out until the storm passes over.

After a few hours of morning TV – scanning for any news on the Amy Elliott Dunne case – I slip into my clammy bikini. I’ll go to the pool. Float a bit, take a vacation from my harpy brain. The pregnancy news was gratifying, but there is still so much I don’t know. I planned so hard, but there are things beyond my control, spoiling my vision of how this should go. Andie hasn’t done her part. The diary may need some help being found. The police haven’t made a move to arrest Nick. I don’t know what all they’ve discovered, and I don’t like it. I’m tempted to make a call, a tip-line call, to nudge them in the right direction. I’ll wait a few more days. I have a calendar on my wall, and I mark three days from now with the words CALL TODAY. So I know that’s how long I’ve agreed to wait. Once they find the diary, things will move quickly.

Outside, it’s jungle-hot once again, the cicadas closing in. My inflatable raft is pink with mermaids on it and too small for me – my calves dangle in the water – but it keeps me floating aimlessly for a good hour, which is something I’ve learned ‘I’ like to do.

I can see a blond head bobbing across the parking lot, and then the girl with the split lip comes through the chain-link gate with one of the bath towels from the cabins, no bigger than a tea towel, and a pack of Merits and a book and SPF 120. Lung cancer but not skin. She settles herself and applies the lotion carefully, which is different from the other beat-up women who come here – they slather themselves in baby oil, leave greasy shadows on the lawn chairs.

The girl nods to me, the nod men give each other when they sit down at a bar. She is reading The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury. A sci-fi girl. Abused women like escapism, of course.

‘Good book,’ I toss over to her, a harmless conversational beach ball.

‘Someone left it in my cabin. It was this or Black Beauty.’ She puts on fat, cheap sunglasses.

‘Not bad either. Black Stallion’s better, though.’

She looks up at me with sunglasses still on. Two black bee-eyed discs. ‘Hunh.’

She turns back to her book, the pointed I am now reading gesture usually seen on crowded airplanes. And I am the annoying busybody next to her who hogs the armrest and says things like ‘Business or pleasure?’

‘I’m Nancy,’ I say. A new name – not Lydia – which isn’t smart in these cramped quarters, but it comes out. My brain sometimes goes too fast for my own good. I was thinking of the girl’s split lip, her sad, pre-owned vibe, and then I was thinking of abuse and prostitution, and then I was thinking of Oliver!, my favorite musical as a child, and the doomed hooker Nancy, who loved her violent man right until he killed her, and then I was wondering why my feminist mother and I ever watched Oliver!, considering ‘As Long as He Needs Me’ is basically a lilting paean to domestic violence, and then I was thinking that Diary Amy was also killed by her man, she was actually a lot like—

‘I’m Nancy,’ I say.

‘Greta.’

Sounds made up.

‘Nice to meet you, Greta.’

I float away. Behind me I hear the shwick of Greta’s lighter, and then smoke wafts overhead like spindrifts.

Forty minutes later, Greta sits down on the edge of the pool, dangles her legs in the water. ‘It’s hot,’ she says. ‘The water.’ She has a husky, hardy voice, cigarettes and prairie dirt.

‘Like bathwater.’

‘It’s not very refreshing.’

‘The lake’s not much cooler.’

‘I can’t swim anyway,’ she says.

I’ve never met anyone who can’t swim. ‘I can just barely,’ I lie. ‘Dog paddle.’

She ruffles her legs, the waves gently rocking my raft. ‘So what’s it like here?’ she asks.

‘Nice. Quiet.’

‘Good, that’s what I need.’

I turn to look at her. She has two gold necklaces, a perfectly round bruise the size of a plum near her left breast, and a shamrock tattoo just above her bikini line. Her swimsuit is brand-new, cherry-red, cheap. From the marina convenience store where I bought my raft.

‘You on your own?’ I ask.

‘Very.’

I am unsure what to ask next. Is there some sort of code that abused women use with each other, a language I don’t know?

‘Guy trouble?’

She twitches an eyebrow at me that seems to be a yes.

‘Me too,’

I say. ‘It’s not like we weren’t warned,’ she says. She cups her hand into the water, lets it dribble down her front. ‘My mom, one of the first things she ever told me, going to school the first day: Stay away from boys. They’ll either throw rocks or look up your skirt.’

‘You should make a T-shirt that says that.’

She laughs. ‘It’s true, though. It’s always true. My mom lives in a lesbian village down in Texas. I keep thinking I should join her. Everyone seems happy there.’

‘A lesbian village?’

‘Like a, a whaddayacallit. A commune. Bunch of lesbians bought land, started their own society, sort of. No men allowed. Sounds just freakin’ great to me, world without men.’ She cups another handful of water, pulls up her sunglasses, and wets her face. ‘Too bad I don’t like pussy.’

She laughs, an old woman’s angry-bark laugh. ‘So, are there any asshole guys here I can start dating?’ she says. ‘That’s my, like, pattern. Run away from one, bump into the next.’

‘It’s half empty most of the time. There’s Jeff, the guy with the beard, he’s actually really nice,’ I say. ‘He’s been here longer than me.’

‘How long are you staying?’ she asks.

I pause. It’s odd, I don’t know the exact amount of time I will be here. I had planned on staying until Nick was arrested, but I have no idea if he will be arrested soon.

‘Till he stops looking for you, huh?’ Greta guesses.

‘Something like that.’

She examines me closely, frowns. My stomach tightens. I wait for her to say it: You look familiar.

‘Never go back to a man with fresh bruises. Don’t give him the satisfaction,’ Greta intones. She stands up, gathers her things. Dries her legs on the tiny towel.

‘Good day killed,’ she says.

For some reason, I give a thumbs-up, which I’ve never done in my life.

‘Come to my cabin when you get out, if you want to,’ she says. ‘We can watch TV.’

I bring a fresh tomato from Dorothy, held in my palm like a shiny housewarming gift. Greta comes to the door and barely acknowledges me, as if I’ve been dropping over for years. She plucks the tomato from my hand.

‘Perfect, I was just making sandwiches,’ she says. ‘Grab a seat.’ She points toward the bed – we have no sitting rooms here – and moves into her kitchenette, which has the same plastic cutting board, the same dull knife, as mine. She slices the tomato. A plastic disc of lunch meat sits on the counter, the stomachy-sweet smell filling the room. She sets two slippery sandwiches on paper plates, along with handfuls of goldfish crackers, and marches them into the bedroom area, her hand already on the remote, flipping from noise to noise. We sit on the edge of the bed, side by side, watching the TV.

‘Stop me if you see something,’ Greta says.

I take a bite of my sandwich. My tomato slips out the side and onto my thigh.

The Beverly Hillbillies, Suddenly Susan, Armageddon.

Ellen Abbott Live. A photo of me fills the screen. I am the lead story. Again. I look great.

‘You seen this?’ Greta asked, not looking at me, talking as if my disappearance were a rerun of a decent TV show. ‘This woman vanishes on her five-year wedding anniversary. Husband acts real weird from the start, all smiley and shit. Turns out he bumped up her life insurance, and they just found out the wife was pregnant. And the guy didn’t want it.’

The screen cuts to another photo of me juxtaposed with Amazing Amy.

Greta turns to me. ‘You remember those books?’

‘Of course!’

‘You like those books?’

‘Everyone likes those books, they’re so cute,’ I say.

Greta snorts. ‘They’re so fake.’

Close-up of me.

I wait for her to say how beautiful I am.

‘She’s not bad, huh, for, like, her age,’ she says. ‘I hope I look that good when I’m forty.’

Ellen is filling the audience in on my story; my photo lingers on the screen.

‘Sounds to me like she was a spoiled rich girl,’ Greta says. ‘High-maintenance. Bitchy.’

That is simply unfair. I’d left no evidence for anyone to conclude that. Since I’d moved to Missouri – well, since I’d come up with my plan – I’d been careful to be low-maintenance, easygoing, cheerful, all those things people want women to be. I waved to neighbors, I ran errands for Mo’s friends, I once brought cola to the ever-soiled Stucks Buckley. I visited Nick’s dad so that all the nurses could testify to how nice I was, so I could whisper over and over into Bill Dunne’s spiderweb brain: I love you, come live with us, I love you, come live with us. Just to see if it would catch. Nick’s dad is what the people of Comfort Hill call a roamer – he is always wandering off. I love the idea of Bill Dunne, the living totem of everything Nick fears he could become, the object of Nick’s most profound despair, showing up over and over and over on our doorstep.

‘How does she seem bitchy?’ I ask.

She shrugs. The TV goes to a commercial for air freshener. A woman is spraying air freshener so her family will be happy. Then to a commercial for very thin panty liners so a woman can wear a dress and dance and meet the man she will later spray air freshener for.

Clean and bleed. Bleed and clean.

‘You can just tell,’ Greta says. ‘She just sounds like a rich, bored bitch. Like those rich bitches who use their husbands’ money to start, like, cupcake companies and card shops and shit. Boutiques.’

In New York, I had friends with all those kinds of businesses – they liked to be able to say they worked, even though they only did the little stuff that was fun: Name the cupcake, order the stationery, wear the adorable dress that was from their very own store.

‘She’s definitely one of those,’ Greta said. ‘Rich bitch putting on airs.’

Greta leaves to go to the bathroom, and I tiptoe into her kitchen, go into her fridge, and spit in her milk, her orange juice, and a container of potato salad, then tiptoe back to the bed.

Flush. Greta returns. ‘I mean, all that doesn’t mean it’s okay that he killed her. She’s just another woman, made a very bad choice in her man.’

She is looking right at me, and I wait for her to say, ‘Hey, wait a minute …’

But she turns back to the TV, rearranges herself so she is lying on her stomach like a child, her chin in her hands, her face directed at my image on the screen.

‘Oh, shit, here it goes,’ Greta says. ‘People are hatin’ on this guy.’

The show gets underway, and I feel a bit better. It is the apotheosis of Amy.

Campbell MacIntosh, childhood friend: ‘Amy is just a nurturing, motherly type of woman. She loved being a wife. And I know she would have been a great mother. But Nick – you just knew Nick was wrong somehow. Cold and aloof and really calculating – you got the feeling that he was definitely aware of how much money Amy had.’

(Campbell is lying: She got all googly around Nick, she absolutely adored him. But I’m sure she liked the idea that he only married me for my money.)

Shawna Kelly North, Carthage resident: ‘I found it really, really strange how totally unconcerned he was at the search for his wife. He was just, you know, chatting, passing the time. Flirting around with me, who he didn’t know from Adam. I’d try to turn the conversation to Amy, and he would just – just no interest.’

(I’m sure this desperate old slut absolutely did not try to turn the conversation toward me.)

Steven ‘Stucks’ Buckley, longtime friend of Nick Dunne: ‘She was a sweetheart. Sweet. Heart. And Nick? He just didn’t seem that worried about Amy being gone. The guy was always like that: self-centered. Stuck up a little. Like he’d made it all big in New York and we should all bow down.’

(I despise Stucks Buckley, and what the fuck kind of name is that?)

Noelle Hawthorne, looking like she just got new highlights: ‘I think he killed her. No one will say it, but I will. He abused her, and he bullied her, and he finally killed her.’

(Good dog.)

Greta glances sideways at me, her cheeks smushed up under her hands, her face flickering in the TV glow.

‘I hope that’s not true,’ she says. ‘That he killed her. It’d be nice to think that maybe she just got away, just ran away from him, and she’s hiding out all safe and sound.’

She kicks her legs back and forth like a lazy swimmer. I can’t tell if she’s fucking with me.

NICK DUNNE

EIGHT DAYS GONE

We searched every cranny of my father’s house, which didn’t take long, since it’s so pathetically empty. The cabinets, the closets. I yanked at the corners of rugs to see if they came up. I peeked into his washer and dryer, stuck a hand up his chimney. I even looked behind the toilet tanks.

‘Very Godfather of you,’ Go said.

‘If it were very Godfather, I’d have found what we were looking for and come out shooting.’

Tanner stood in the center of my dad’s living room and tugged at the end of his lime tie. Go and I were smeared with dust and grime, but somehow Tanner’s white button-down positively glowed, as if it retained some of the strobe-light glamour of New York. He was staring at the corner of a cabinet, chewing on his lip, tugging at the tie, thinking. The man had probably spent years perfecting this look: the Shut up, client, I’m thinking look.

‘I don’t like this,’ he finally said. ‘We have a lot of uncontained issues here, and I won’t go to the cops until we’re very, very contained. My first instinct is to get ahead of the situation – report that stuff in the shed before we get busted with it. But if we don’t know what Amy wants us to find here, and we don’t know Andie’s mind-set … Nick, do you have a guess about what Andie’s mind-set is?’

I shrugged. ‘Pissed.’

‘I mean, that makes me very, very nervous. We’re in a very prickly situation, basically. We need to tell the cops about the woodshed. We have to be on the front end of that discovery. But I want to lay out for you what will happen when we do. And what will happen is: They will go after Go. It’ll be one of two options. One: Go is your accomplice, she was helping you hide this stuff on her property, and in all likelihood, she knows you killed Amy.’

‘Come on, you can’t be serious,’ I said.

‘Nick, we’d be lucky with that version,’ Tanner said. ‘They can interpret this however they want. How about this one: It was Go who stole your identity, who got those credit cards. She bought all that crap in there. Amy found out, there was a confrontation, Go killed Amy.’

‘Then we get way, way ahead of all this,’ I said. ‘We tell them about the woodshed, and we tell them Amy is framing me.’

‘I think that is a bad idea in general, and right now it’s a really bad idea if we don’t have Andie on our side, because we’d have to tell them about Andie.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if we go to the cops with your story, that Amy framed you—’

‘Why do you keep saying my story, like it’s something I made up?’

‘Ha. Good point. If we explain to the cops how Amy is framing you, we have to explain why she is framing you. Why: because she found out you have a very pretty, very young girlfriend on the side.’

‘Do we really have to tell them that?’ I asked.

‘Amy framed you for her murder because … she was … what, bored?’

I swallowed my lips.

‘We have to give them Amy’s motive, it doesn’t work otherwise. But the problem is, if we set Andie, gift-wrapped, on their doorstep, and they don’t buy the frame-up theory, then we’ve given them your motive for murder. Money problems, check. Pregnant wife, check. Girlfriend, check. It’s a murderer’s triumvirate. You’ll go down. Women will line up to tear you apart with their fingernails.’ He began pacing. ‘But if we don’t do anything, and Andie goes to them on her own …’

‘So what do we do?’ I asked.

‘I think the cops will laugh us out of the station if we say right now that Amy framed you. It’s too flimsy. I believe you, but it’s flimsy.’

‘But the treasure hunt clues—’ I started.

‘Nick, even I don’t understand those clues,’ Go said. ‘They’re all inside baseball between you and Amy. There’s only your word that they’re leading you into … incriminating situations. I mean, seriously: crummy jeans and visor equals Hannibal?’

‘Little brown house equals your dad’s house, which is blue,’ Tanner added.

I could feel Tanner’s doubt. I needed to really show him Amy’s character. Her lies, her vindictiveness, her score-settling. I needed other people to back me up – that my wife wasn’t Amazing Amy but Avenging Amy.

‘Lets see if we can reach out to Andie today,’ Tanner finally said.

‘Isn’t it a risk to wait?’ Go asked.

Tanner nodded. ‘It’s a risk. We have to move fast. If another bit of evidence pops up, if the police get a search warrant for the woodshed, if Andie goes to the cops—’

‘She won’t,’ I said.

‘She bit you, Nick.’

‘She won’t. She’s pissed off right now, but she’s … I can’t believe she’d do that to me. She knows I’m innocent.’

‘Nick, you said you were with Andie for about an hour the morning Amy disappeared, yes?’

‘Yes. From about ten-thirty to right before twelve.’

‘So where were you between seven-thirty and ten?’ Tanner asked. ‘You said you left the house at seven-thirty, right? Where did you go?’

I chewed on my cheek.

‘Where did you go, Nick – I need to know.’

‘It’s not relevant.’

‘Nick!’ Go snapped.

‘I just did what I do some mornings. I pretended to leave, then I drove to the most deserted part of our complex, and I … one of the houses there has an unlocked garage.’

‘And?’ Tanner said.

‘And I read magazines.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I read back issues of my old magazine.’

I still missed my magazine – I hid copies like porn and read them in secret, because I didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.

I looked up, and both Tanner and Go felt very, very sorry for me.

I drove back to my house just after noon, was greeted by a street full of news vans, reporters camped out on my lawn. I couldn’t get into my driveway, was forced to park in front of the house. I took a breath, then flung myself out of the car. They set on me like starving birds, pecking and fluttering, breaking formation and gathering again. Nick, did you know Amy was pregnant? Nick, what is your alibi? Nick, did you kill Amy?

I made it inside, locked myself in. On each side of the door were windows, so I braved it and quickly pulled down the shades, all the while cameras clicking at me, questions called. Nick, did you kill Amy? Once the shades were pulled, it was like covering a canary for the night: The noise out front stopped.

I went upstairs and satisfied my shower craving. I closed my eyes and let the spray dissolve the dirt from my dad’s house. When I opened them back up, the first thing I saw was Amy’s pink razor on the soap dish. It felt ominous, malevolent. My wife was crazy. I was married to a crazy woman. It’s every asshole’s mantra: I married a psycho bitch. But I got a small, nasty bite of gratification: I really did marry a genuine, bona fide psycho bitch. Nick, meet your wife: the world’s foremost mindfucker. I was not as big an asshole as I’d thought. An asshole, yes, but not on a grandiose scale. The cheating, that had been preemptive, a subconscious reaction to five years yoked to a madwoman: Of course I’d find myself attracted to an uncomplicated, good-natured hometown girl. It’s like when people with iron deficiencies crave red meat.

I was toweling off when the doorbell rang. I leaned out the bathroom door and heard the reporters’ voices geared up again: Do you believe your son-in-law, Marybeth? What does it feel like to know you’ll be a grandpa, Rand? Do you think Nick killed your daughter, Marybeth?

They stood side by side on my front step, grim-faced, their backs rigid. There were about a dozen journalists, paparazzi, but they made the noise of twice that many. Do you believe your son-in-law, Marybeth? What does it feel like to know you’ll be a grandpa, Rand? The Elliotts entered with mumbled hellos and downcast eyes, and I slammed the door shut on the cameras. Rand put a hand on my arm and immediately removed it under Marybeth’s gaze.

‘Sorry, I was in the shower.’ My hair was still dripping, wetting the shoulders of my T-shirt. Marybeth’s hair was greasy, her clothes wilted. She looked at me like I was insane.

‘Tanner Bolt? Are you serious?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, Nick: Tanner Bolt, are you serious. He only represents guilty people.’ She leaned in closer, grabbed my chin. ‘What’s on your cheek?’

‘Hives. Stress.’ I turned away from her. ‘That’s not true about Tanner, Marybeth. It’s not. He’s the best in the business. I need him right now. The police – all they’re doing is looking at me.’

‘That certainly seems to be the case,’ she said. ‘It looks like a bite mark.’

‘It’s hives.’

Marybeth released an aggravated sigh, turned the corner into the living room. ‘This is where it happened?’ she asked. Her face had collapsed into a series of fleshy ridges – eye bags and saggy cheeks, her lips downcast.

‘We think. Some sort of … altercation, confrontation, also happened in the kitchen.’

‘Because of the blood.’ Marybeth touched the ottoman, tested it, lifted it a few inches, and let it drop. ‘I wish you hadn’t fixed everything. You made it look like nothing ever happened.’

‘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—’