Текст книги "Gone Girl"

Автор книги: Gillian Flynn

Соавторы: Gillian Flynn,Gillian Flynn
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE

JULY 5, 2008

I am fat with love! Husky with ardor! Morbidly obese with devotion! A happy, busy bumblebee of marital enthusiasm. I positively hum around him, fussing and fixing. I have become a strange thing. I have become a wife. I find myself steering the ship of conversations – bulkily, unnaturally – just so I can say his name aloud. I have become a wife, I have become a bore, I have been asked to forfeit my Independent Young Feminist card. I don’t care. I balance his checkbook, I trim his hair. I’ve gotten so retro, at one point I will probably use the word pocketbook, shuffling out the door in my swingy tweed coat, my lips painted red, on the way to the beauty parlor. Nothing bothers me. Everything seems like it will turn out fine, every bother transformed into an amusing story to be told over dinner. So I killed a hobo today, honey … hahahaha! Ah, we have fun!

Nick is like a good stiff drink: He gives everything the correct perspective. Not a different perspective, the correct perspective. With Nick, I realize it actually, truly doesn’t matter if the electricity bill is a few days late, if my latest quiz turns out a little lame. (My most recent, I’m not joking: ‘What kind of tree would you be?’ Me, I’m an apple tree! This means nothing!) It doesn’t matter if the new Amazing Amy book has been well and duly scorched, the reviews vicious, the sales a stunning plummet after a limp start. It doesn’t matter what color I paint our room, or how late traffic makes me, or whether our recycling really, truly does get recycled. (Just level with me, New York, does it?) It doesn’t matter, because I have found my match. It’s Nick, laid-back and calm, smart and fun and uncomplicated. Untortured, happy. Nice. Big penis.

All the stuff I don’t like about myself has been pushed to the back of my brain. Maybe that is what I like best about him, the way he makes me. Not makes me feel, just makes me. I am fun. I am playful. I am game. I feel naturally happy and entirely satisfied. I am a wife! It’s weird to say those words. (Seriously, about the recycling, New York – come on, just a wink.)

We do silly things, like last weekend we drove to Delaware because neither of us have ever had sex in Delaware. Let me set the scene, because now it really is for posterity. We cross the state line – Welcome to Delaware!, the sign says, and also: Small Wonder, and also: The First State, and also: Home of Tax-Free Shopping.

Delaware, a state of many rich identities.

I point Nick down the first dirt road I see, and we rumble five minutes until we hit pine trees on all sides. We don’t speak. He pushes his seat back. I pull up my skirt. I am not wearing undies, I can see his mouth turn down and his face go slack, the drugged, determined look he gets when he’s turned on. I climb atop him, my back to him, facing the windshield. I’m pressed against the steering wheel, and as we move together, the horn emits tiny bleats that mimic me, and my hand makes a smearing noise as I press it against the windshield. Nick and I can come anywhere; neither of us gets stage fright, it’s something we’re both rather proud of. Then we drive right back home. I eat beef jerky and ride with bare feet on the dashboard.

We love our house. The house that Amazing Amy built. A Brooklyn brownstone my parents bought for us, right on the Promenade, with the big wide-screen view of Manhattan. It’s extravagant, it makes me feel guilty, but it’s perfect. I battle the spoiled-rich-girl vibe where I can. Lots of DIY. We painted the walls ourselves over two weekends: spring green and pale yellow and velvety blue. In theory. None of the colors turned out like we thought they would, but we pretend to like them anyway. We fill our home with knickknacks from flea markets; we buy records for Nick’s record player. Last night we sat on the old Persian rug, drinking wine and listening to the vinyl scratches as the sky went dark and Manhattan switched on, and Nick said, ‘This is how I always pictured it. This is exactly how I pictured it.’

On weekends, we talk to each other under four layers of bedding, our faces warm under a sunlit yellow comforter. Even the floorboards are cheerful: There are two old creaky slats that call out to us as we walk in the door. I love it, I love that it is ours, that we have a great story behind the ancient floor lamp, or the misshapen clay mug that sits near our coffeepot, never holding anything but a single paper clip. I spend my days thinking of sweet things to do for him – go buy a peppermint soap that will sit in his palm like a warm stone, or maybe a slim slice of trout that I could cook and serve to him, an ode to his riverboat days. I know, I am ridiculous. I love it, though – I never knew I was capable of being ridiculous over a man. It’s a relief. I even swoon over his socks, which he manages to shed in adorably tangled poses, as if a puppy carried them in from another room.

It is our one-year anniversary and I am fat with love, even though people kept telling and telling us the first year was going to be so hard, as if we were naive children marching off to war. It wasn’t hard. We are meant to be married. It is our one-year anniversary, and Nick is leaving work at lunchtime; my treasure hunt awaits him. The clues are all about us, about the past year together:

Whenever my sweet hubby gets a cold

It is this dish that will soon be sold.

Answer: the torn yum soup from Thai Town on President Street. The manager will be there this afternoon with a taster bowl and the next clue.

Also McMann’s in Chinatown and the Alice statue at Central Park. A grand tour of New York. We’ll end at the Fulton Street fish market, where we’ll buy a pair of beautiful lobsters, and I will hold the container in my lap as Nick jitters nervously in the cab beside me. We’ll rush home, and I will drop them in a new pot on our old stove with all the finesse of a girl who has lived many Cape summers while Nick giggles and pretends to hide in fear outside the kitchen door.

I had suggested we get burgers. Nick wanted us to go out – fivestar, fancy – somewhere with a clockwork of courses and name-dropping waiters. So the lobsters are a perfect in-between, the lobsters are what everyone tells us (and tells us and tells us) that marriage is about: compromise!

We’ll eat lobster with butter and have sex on the floor while a woman on one of our old jazz records sings to us in her far-side-of-the-tunnel voice. We’ll get slowly lazy-drunk on good Scotch, Nick’s favorite. I’ll give him his present – the monogrammed stationery he’s been wanting from Crane & Co. with the clean sans-serif font set in hunter green, on the thick creamy stock that will hold lush ink and his writer’s words. Stationery for a writer, and a writer’s wife who’s maybe angling for a love letter or two.

Then maybe we’ll have sex again. And a late-night burger. And more Scotch. Voilà: happiest couple on the block! And they say marriage is such hard work.

NICK DUNNE

THE NIGHT OF

Boney and Gilpin moved our interview to the police station, which looks like a failing community bank. They left me alone in a little room for forty minutes, me willing myself not to move. To pretend to be calm is to be calm, in a way. I slouched over the table, put my chin on my arm. Waited.

‘Do you want to call Amy’s parents?’ Boney had asked.

‘I don’t want to panic them,’ I said. ‘If we don’t hear from her in an hour, I’ll call.’

We’d done three rounds of that conversation.

Finally, the cops came in and sat at the table across from me. I fought the urge to laugh at how much it felt like a TV show. This was the same room I’d seen surfing through late-night cable for the past ten years, and the two cops – weary, intense – acted like the stars. Totally fake. Epcot Police Station. Boney was even holding a paper coffee cup and a manila folder that looked like a prop. Cop prop. I felt giddy, felt for a moment we were all pretend people: Let’s play the Missing Wife game!

‘You okay there, Nick?’ Boney asked.

‘I’m okay, why?’

‘You’re smiling.’

The giddiness slid to the tiled floor. ‘I’m sorry, it’s all just—’

‘I know,’ Boney said, giving me a look that was like a hand pat. ‘It’s too strange, I know.’ She cleared her throat. ‘First of all, we want to make sure you’re comfortable here. You need anything, just let us know. The more information you can give us right now, the better, but you can leave at any time, that’s not a problem, either.’

‘Whatever you need.’

‘Okay, great, thank you,’ she said. ‘Um, okay. I want to get the annoying stuff out of the way first. The crap stuff. If your wife was indeed abducted – and we don’t know that, but if it comes to that – we want to catch the guy, and when we catch the guy, we want to nail him, hard. No way out. No wiggle room.’

‘Right.’

‘So we have to rule you out real quick, real easy. So the guy can’t come back and say we didn’t rule you out, you know what I mean?’

I nodded mechanically. I didn’t really know what she meant, but I wanted to seem as cooperative as possible. ‘Whatever you need.’

‘We don’t want to freak you out,’ Gilpin added. ‘We just want to cover all the bases.’

‘Fine by me.’ It’s always the husband, I thought. Everyone knows it’s always the husband, so why can’t they just say it: We suspect you because you are the husband, and it’s always the husband. Just watch Dateline.

‘Okay, great, Nick,’ Boney said. ‘First let’s get a swab of the inside of your cheek so we can rule out all of the DNA in the house that isn’t yours. Would that be okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’d also like to take a quick sweep of your hands for gun shot residue. Again, just in case—’

‘Wait, wait, wait. Have you found something that makes you think my wife was—’

‘Nonono, Nick,’ Gilpin interrupted. He pulled a chair up to the table and sat on it backward. I wondered if cops actually did that. Or did some clever actor do that, and then cops began doing it because they’d seen the actors playing cops do that and it looked cool?

‘It’s just smart protocol,’ Gilpin continued. ‘We try to cover every base: Check your hands, get a swab, and if we could check out your car too …’

‘Of course. Like I said, whatever you need.’

‘Thank you, Nick. I really appreciate it. Sometimes guys, they make things hard for us just because they can.’

I was exactly the opposite. My father had infused my childhood with unspoken blame; he was the kind of man who skulked around looking for things to be angry at. This had turned Go defensive and extremely unlikely to take unwarranted shit. It had turned me into a knee-jerk suckup to authority. Mom, Dad, teachers: Whatever makes your job easier, sir or madam. I craved a constant stream of approval. ‘You’d literally lie, cheat, and steal – hell, kill – to convince people you are a good guy,’ Go once said. We were in line for knishes at Yonah Schimmel’s, not far from Go’s old New York apartment – that’s how well I remember the moment – and I lost my appetite because it was so completely true and I’d never realized it, and even as she was saying it, I thought: I will never forget this, this is one of those moments that will be lodged in my brain forever.

We made small talk, the cops and I, about the July Fourth fireworks and the weather, while my hands were tested for gunshot residue and the slick inside of my cheek was cotton-tipped. Pretending it was normal, a trip to the dentist.

When it was done, Boney put another cup of coffee in front of me, squeezed my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry about that. Worst part of the job. You think you’re up to a few questions now? It’d really help us.’

‘Yes, definitely, fire away.’

She placed a slim digital tape recorder on the table in front of me. ‘You mind? This way you won’t have to answer the same questions over and over and over …’ She wanted to tape me so I’d be nailed to one story. I should call a lawyer, I thought, but only guilty people need lawyers, so I nodded: No problem.

‘So: Amy,’ Boney said. ‘You two been living here how long?’

‘Just about two years.’

‘And she’s originally from New York. City.’

‘Yes.’

‘She work, got a job?’ Gilpin said.

‘No. She used to write personality quizzes.’

The detectives swapped a look: Quizzes?

‘For teen magazines, women’s magazines,’ I said. ‘You know: “Are you the jealous type? Take our quiz and find out! Do guys find you too intimidating? Take our quiz and find out!”’

‘Very cool, I love those,’ Boney said. ‘I didn’t know that was an actual job. Writing those. Like, a career.’

‘Well, it’s not. Anymore. The Internet is packed with quizzes for free. Amy’s were smarter – she had a master’s in psychology – has a master’s in psychology.’ I guffawed uncomfortably at my gaffe. ‘But smart can’t beat free.’

‘Then what?’

I shrugged. ‘Then we moved back here. She’s just kind of staying at home right now.’

‘Oh! You guys got kids, then?’ Boney chirped, as if she had discovered good news.

‘No.’

‘Oh. So then what does she do most days?’

That was my question too. Amy was once a woman who did a little of everything, all the time. When we moved in together, she’d made an intense study of French cooking, displaying hyper-quick knife skills and an inspired boeuf bourguignon. For her thirty-fourth birthday, we flew to Barcelona, and she stunned me by rolling off trills of conversational Spanish, learned in months of secret lessons. My wife had a brilliant, popping brain, a greedy curiosity. But her obsessions tended to be fueled by competition: She needed to dazzle men and jealous-ify women: Of course Amy can cook French cuisine and speak fluent Spanish and garden and knit and run marathons and day-trade stocks and fly a plane and look like a runway model doing it. She needed to be Amazing Amy, all the time. Here in Missouri, the women shop at Target, they make diligent, comforting meals, they laugh about how little high school Spanish they remember. Competition doesn’t interest them. Amy’s relentless achieving is greeted with open-palmed acceptance and maybe a bit of pity. It was about the worst outcome possible for my competitive wife: A town of contented also-rans.

‘She has a lot of hobbies,’ I said.

‘Anything worrying you?’ Boney asked, looking worried. ‘You’re not concerned about drugs or drinking? I’m not speaking ill of your wife. A lot of housewives, more than you’d guess, they pass the day that way. The days, they get long when you’re by yourself. And if the drinking turns to drugs – and I’m not talking heroin but even prescription painkillers – well, there are some pretty awful characters selling around here right now.’

‘The drug trade has gotten bad,’ Gilpin said. ‘We’ve had a bunch of police layoffs – one fifth of the force, and we were tight to begin with. I mean, it’s bad, we’re overrun.’

‘Had a housewife, nice lady, get a tooth knocked out last month over some Oxycontin,’ Boney prompted.

‘No, Amy might have a glass of wine or something, but not drugs.’

Boney eyed me; this was clearly not the answer she wanted. ‘She have some good friends here? We’d like to call some of them, just make sure. No offense. Sometimes a spouse is the last to know when drugs are involved. People get ashamed, especially women.’

Friends. In New York, Amy made and shed friends weekly; they were like her projects. She’d get intensely excited about them: Paula who gave her singing lessons and had a wicked good voice (Amy went to boarding school in Massachusetts; I loved the very occasional times she got all New England on me: wicked good); Jessie from the fashion-design course. But then I’d ask about Jessie or Paula a month later, and Amy would look at me like I was making up words.

Then there were the men who were always rattling behind Amy, eager to do the husbandly things that her husband failed to do. Fix a chair leg, hunt down her favorite imported Asian tea. Men who she swore were her friends, just good friends. Amy kept them at exactly an arm’s distance – far enough away that I couldn’t get too annoyed, close enough that she could crook a finger and they’d do her bidding.

In Missouri … good God, I really didn’t know. It only occurred to me just then. You truly are an asshole, I thought. Two years we’d been here, and after the initial flurry of meet-and-greets, those manic first months, Amy had no one she regularly saw. She had my mom, who was now dead, and me – and our main form of conversation was attack and rebuttal. When we’d been back home for a year, I’d asked her faux gallantly: ‘And how are you liking North Carthage, Mrs Dunne?’ ‘New Carthage, you mean?’ she’d replied. I refused to ask her the reference, but I knew it was an insult.

‘She has a few good friends, but they’re mostly back east.’

‘Her folks?’

‘They live in New York. City.’

‘And you still haven’t called any of these people?’ Boney asked, a bemused smile on her face.

‘I’ve been doing everything else you’ve been asking me to do. I haven’t had a chance.’ I’d signed away permission to trace credit cards and ATMs and track Amy’s cell phone, I’d handed over Go’s cell number and the name of Sue, the widow at The Bar, who could presumably attest to the time I arrived.

‘Baby of the family.’ She shook her head. ‘You really do remind me of my little brother.’ A beat. ‘That’s a compliment, I swear.’

‘She dotes on him,’ Gilpin said, scribbling in a notebook. ‘Okay, so you left the house at about seven-thirty a.m., and you showed up at The Bar at about noon, and in between, you were at the beach.’

There’s a beachhead about ten miles north of our house, a not overly pleasant collection of sand and silt and beer-bottle shards. Trash barrels overflowing with Styrofoam cups and dirty diapers. But there is a picnic table upwind that gets nice sun, and if you stare directly at the river, you can ignore the other crap.

‘I sometimes bring my coffee and the paper and just sit. Gotta make the most of summer.’

No, I hadn’t talked to anyone at the beach. No, no one saw me.

‘It’s a quiet place midweek,’ Gilpin allowed.

If the police talked to anyone who knew me, they’d quickly learn that I rarely went to the beach and that I never sometimes brought my coffee to just enjoy the morning. I have Irish-white skin and an impatience for navel-gazing: A beach boy I am not. I told the police that because it had been Amy’s idea, for me to go sit in the spot where I could be alone and watch the river I loved and ponder our life together. She’d said this to me this morning, after we’d eaten her crepes. She leaned forward on the table and said, ‘I know we are having a tough time. I still love you so much, Nick, and I know I have a lot of things to work on. I want to be a good wife to you, and I want you to be my husband and be happy. But you need to decide what you want.’

She’d clearly been practicing the speech; she smiled proudly as she said it. And even as my wife was offering me this kindness, I was thinking, Of course she has to stage-manage this. She wants the image of me and the wild running river, my hair ruffling in the breeze as I look out onto the horizon and ponder our life together. I can’t just go to Dunkin’ Donuts.

You need to decide what you want. Unfortunately for Amy, I had decided already.

Boney looked up brightly from her notes: ‘Can you tell me what your wife’s blood type is?’ she asked.

‘Uh, no, I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know your wife’s blood type?’

‘Maybe O?’ I guessed.

Boney frowned, then made a drawn-out yoga-like sound. ‘Okay, Nick, here are the things we are doing to help.’ She listed them: Amy’s cell was being monitored, her photo circulated, her credit cards tracked. Known sex offenders in the area were being interviewed. Our sparse neighborhood was being canvassed. Our home phone was tapped, in case any ransom calls came in.

I wasn’t sure what to say now. I raked my memory for the lines: What does the husband say at this point in the movie? Depends on whether he’s guilty or innocent.

‘I can’t say that reassures me. Are you – is this an abduction, or a missing persons case, or what exactly is going on?’ I knew the statistics, knew them from the same TV show I was starring in: If the first forty-eight hours didn’t turn up something in a case, it was likely to go unsolved. The first forty-eight hours were crucial. ‘I mean, my wife is gone. My wife: is gone!’ I realized it was the first time I’d said it the way it should have been said: panicked and angry. My dad was a man of infinite varieties of bitterness, rage, distaste. In my lifelong struggle to avoid becoming him, I’d developed an inability to demonstrate much negative emotion at all. It was another thing that made me seem like a dick – my stomach could be all oiled eels, and you would get nothing from my face and less from my words. It was a constant problem: too much control or no control at all.

‘Nick, we are taking this extremely seriously,’ Boney said. ‘The lab guys are over at your place as we speak, and that will give us more information to go on. Right now, the more you can tell us about your wife, the better. What is she like?’

The usual husband phrases came into my mind: She’s sweet, she’s great, she’s nice, she’s supportive.

‘What is she like how?’ I asked.

‘Give me an idea of her personality,’ Boney prompted. ‘Like, what did you get her for your anniversary? Jewelry?’

‘I hadn’t gotten anything quite yet,’ I said. ‘I was going to do it this afternoon.’ I waited for her to laugh and say ‘baby of the family’ again, but she didn’t.

‘Okay. Well, then, tell me about her. Is she outgoing? Is she – I don’t know how to say this – is she New Yorky? Like what might come off to some as rude? Might rub people the wrong way?’

‘I don’t know. She’s not a never-met-a-stranger kind of person, but she’s not – not abrasive enough to make someone … hurt her.’

This was my eleventh lie. The Amy of today was abrasive enough to want to hurt, sometimes. I speak specifically of the Amy of today, who was only remotely like the woman I fell in love with. It had been an awful fairy-tale reverse transformation. Over just a few years, the old Amy, the girl of the big laugh and the easy ways, literally shed herself, a pile of skin and soul on the floor, and out stepped this new, brittle, bitter Amy. My wife was no longer my wife but a razor-wire knot daring me to unloop her, and I was not up to the job with my thick, numb, nervous fingers. Country fingers. Flyover fingers untrained in the intricate, dangerous work of solving Amy. When I’d hold up the bloody stumps, she’d sigh and turn to her secret mental notebook on which she tallied all my deficiencies, forever noting disappointments, frailties, shortcomings. My old Amy, damn, she was fun. She was funny. She made me laugh. I’d forgotten that. And she laughed. From the bottom of her throat, from right behind that small finger-shaped hollow, which is the best place to laugh from. She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.

She was not the thing she became, the thing I feared most: an angry woman. I was not good with angry women. They brought something out in me that was unsavory.

‘She bossy?’ Gilpin asked. ‘Take-charge?’

I thought of Amy’s calendar, the one that went three years into the future, and if you looked a year ahead, you would actually find appointments: dermatologist, dentist, vet. ‘She’s a planner – she doesn’t, you know, wing anything. She likes to make lists and check things off. Get things done. That’s why this doesn’t make sense—’

‘That can drive you crazy,’ Boney said sympathetically. ‘If you’re not that type. You seem very B-personality.’

‘I’m a little more laid-back, I guess,’ I said. Then I added the part I was supposed to add: ‘We round each other out.’

I looked at the clock on the wall, and Boney touched my hand.

‘Hey, why don’t you go ahead and give a call to Amy’s parents? I’m sure they’d appreciate it.’

It was past midnight. Amy’s parents went to sleep at nine p.m.; they were strangely boastful about this early bedtime. They’d be deep asleep by now, so this would be an urgent middle-of-the-night call. Cells went off at 8:45 always, so Rand Elliott would have to walk from his bed all the way to the end of the hall to pick up the old heavy phone; he’d be fumbling with his glasses, fussy with the table lamp. He’d be telling himself all the reasons not to worry about a late-night phone call, all the harmless reasons the phone might be ringing.

I dialed twice and hung up before I let the call ring through. When I did, it was Marybeth, not Rand, who answered, her deep voice buzzing my ears. I’d only gotten to ‘Marybeth, this is Nick’ when I lost it.

‘What is it, Nick?’

I took a breath.

‘Is it Amy? Tell me.’

‘I uh – I’m sorry I should have called—’

‘Tell me, goddamn it!’

‘We c-can’t find Amy,’ I stuttered.

‘You can’t find Amy?’

‘I don’t know—’

‘Amy is missing?’

‘We don’t know that for sure, we’re still—’

‘Since when?’

‘We’re not sure. I left this morning, a little after seven—’

‘And you waited till now to call us?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to—’

‘Jesus Christ. We played tennis tonight. Tennis, and we could have been … My God. Are the police involved? You’ve notified them?’

‘I’m at the station right now.’

‘Put on whoever’s in charge, Nick. Please.’

Like a kid, I went to fetch Gilpin. My mommy-in-law wants to talk to you.

Phoning the Elliotts made it official. The emergency – Amy is gone – was spreading to the outside.

I was heading back to the interview room when I heard my father’s voice. Sometimes, in particularly shameful moments, I heard his voice in my head. But this was my father’s voice, here. His words emerged in wet bubbles like something from a rancid bog. Bitch bitch bitch. My father, out of his mind, had taken to flinging the word at any woman who even vaguely annoyed him: bitch bitch bitch. I peered inside a conference room, and there he sat on a bench against the wall. He had been a handsome man once, intense and cleft-chinned. Jarringly dreamy was how my aunt had described him. Now he sat muttering at the floor, his blond hair matted, trousers muddy and arms scratched, as if he’d fought his way through a thornbush. A line of spittle glimmered down his chin like a snail’s trail, and he was flexing and unflexing arm muscles that had not yet gone to seed. A tense female officer sat next to him, her lips in an angry pucker, trying to ignore him: Bitch bitch bitch I told you bitch.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked her. ‘This is my father.’

‘You got our call?’

‘What call?’

‘To come get your father.’ She overenunciated, as if I were a dim ten-year-old.

‘I – My wife is missing. I’ve been here most of the night.’

She stared at me, not connecting in the least. I could see her debating whether to sacrifice her leverage and apologise, inquire. Then my father started up again, bitch bitch bitch, and she chose to keep the leverage.

‘Sir, Comfort Hill has been trying to contact you all day. Your father wandered out a fire exit early this morning. He’s got a few scratches and scrapes, as you can see, but no damage. We picked him up a few hours ago, walking down River Road, disoriented. We’ve been trying to reach you.’

‘I’ve been right here,’ I said. ‘Right goddamn next door, how did no one put this together?’

Bitch bitch bitch, said my dad.

‘Sir, please don’t take that tone with me.’

Bitch bitch bitch.

Boney ordered an officer – male – to drive my dad back to the home so I could finish up with them. We stood on the stairs outside the police station, watched him get settled into the car, still muttering. The entire time he never registered my presence. When they drove off, he didn’t even look back.

‘You guys not close?’ she asked.

‘We are the definition of not close.’

The police finished with their questions and hustled me into a squad car at about two a.m. with advice to get a good night’s sleep and return at eleven a.m. for a 12-noon press conference.

I didn’t ask if I could go home. I had them take me to Go’s, because I knew she’d stay up and have a drink with me, fix me a sandwich. It was, pathetically, all I wanted right then: a woman to fix me a sandwich and not ask me any questions.

‘You don’t want to go look for her?’ Go offered as I ate. ‘We can drive around.’

‘That seems pointless,’ I said dully. ‘Where do I look?’

‘Nick, this is really fucking serious.’

‘I know, Go.’

‘Act like it, okay, Lance? Don’t fucking myuhmyuhmyuh.’ It was a thick-tongued noise, the noise she always made to convey my indecisiveness, accompanied by a dazed rolling of the eyes and the dusting off of my legal first name. No one who has my face needs to be called Lance. She handed me a tumbler of Scotch. ‘And drink this, but only this. You don’t want to be hungover tomorrow. Where the fuck could she be? God, I feel sick to my stomach.’ She poured herself a glass, gulped, then tried to sip, pacing around the kitchen. ‘Aren’t you worried, Nick? That some guy, like, saw her on the street and just, just decided to take her? Hit her on the head and—’

I started. ‘Why did you say hit her on the head, what the fuck is that?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to paint a picture, I just … I don’t know, I just keep thinking. About some crazy person.’ She splashed some more Scotch into her tumbler.

‘Speaking of crazy people,’ I said, ‘Dad got out again today, they found him wandering down River Road. He’s back at Comfort now.’

She shrugged: okay. It was the third time in six months that our dad had slipped out. Go was lighting a cigarette, her thoughts still on Amy. ‘I mean, isn’t there someone we can go talk to?’ she asked. ‘Something we can do?’

‘Jesus, Go! You really need me to feel more fucking impotent than I do right now?’ I snapped. ‘I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing. There’s no “When Your Wife Goes Missing 101.” The police told me I could leave. I left. I’m just doing what they tell me.’

‘Of course you are,’ murmured Go, who had a long-stymied mission to turn me into a rebel. It wouldn’t take. I was the kid in high school who made curfew; I was the writer who hit my deadlines, even the fake ones. I respect rules, because if you follow rules, things go smoothly, usually.