flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987)
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This book is a work of fiction.Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either arethe product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirelycoincidental.Copyright © 2012 by Gillian FlynnExcerpt from “Dark Places” copyright © 2009 by Gillian FlynnExcerpt from “Sharp Objects” copyright © 2006 by Gillian FlynnAll rights reserved.Published in the United States by Crown Publishers,an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group,a division of Random House, Inc., New York.www.crownpublishing.comCROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataFlynn, Gillian, 1971–Gone girl : a novel / Gillian Flynn.p.
cm.1. Husbands—Fiction. 2. Married people—Fiction. 3. Wives—Crimes against—Fiction.I. Title. PS3606.L935G66 2012813’.6—dc23 2011041525eISBN: 978-0-307-58838-8JACKET DESIGN BY DARREN HAGGARJACKET PHOTOGRAPH BY BERND OTTv3.1_r5To Brett: light of my life, seniorandFlynn: light of my life, juniorContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationEpigraphPart One: Boy Loses GirlNick Dunne: The Day ofAmy Elliott: January 8, 2005Nick Dunne: The Day ofAmy Elliott: September 18, 2005Nick Dunne: The Day ofAmy Elliott Dunne: July 5, 2008Nick Dunne: The Night ofAmy Elliott Dunne: April 21, 2009Nick Dunne: One Day GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: July 5, 2010Nick Dunne: One Day GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: August 23, 2010Nick Dunne: Two Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: September 15, 2010Nick Dunne: Three Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: October 16, 2010Nick Dunne: Four Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: April 28, 2011Nick Dunne: Four Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: July 21, 2011Nick Dunne: Five Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: August 17, 2011Nick Dunne: Five Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: October 21, 2011Nick Dunne: Six Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: February 15, 2012Nick Dunne: Six Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: June 26, 2012Nick Dunne: Seven Days GonePart Two: Boy Meets GirlAmy Elliott Dunne: The Day ofNick Dunne: Seven Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: The Day ofNick Dunne: Seven Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Five Days GoneNick Dunne: Eight Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Seven Days GoneNick Dunne: Eight Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Eight Days GoneNick Dunne: Eight Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Nine Days GoneNick Dunne: Nine Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Nine Days GoneNick Dunne: Ten Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Ten Days GoneNick Dunne: Ten Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Ten Days GoneNick Dunne: Ten Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Eleven Days GoneNick Dunne: Fourteen Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Twenty-six Days GoneNick Dunne: Thirty-three Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: Forty Days GonePart Three: Boy Gets Girl Back (Or Vice Versa)Nick Dunne: Forty Days GoneAmy Elliott Dunne: The Night of the ReturnNick Dunne: The Night of the ReturnAmy Elliott Dunne: The Night of the ReturnNick Dunne: The Night of the ReturnAmy Elliott Dunne: Five Days After the ReturnNick Dunne: Thirty Days After the ReturnAmy Elliott Dunne: Eight Weeks After the ReturnNick Dunne: Nine Weeks After the ReturnAmy Elliott Dunne: Ten Weeks After the ReturnNick Dunne: Twenty Weeks After the ReturnAmy Elliott Dunne: Ten Months, Two Weeks, Six Days After the ReturnAcknowledgmentsAbout the AuthorOther Books by This AuthorExcerpt from Sharp ObjectsExcerpt from Dark PlacesLove is the world’s infinite mutability; lies, hatred, murder even, are all knit up in it; itis the inevitable blossoming of its opposites, a magnificent rose smelling faintly ofblood.—Tony Kushner, THE ILLUSIONpart oneBOY LOSES GIRLNICK DUNNETHE DAY OFWhen I think of my wife, I always think of her head.
The shape of it, to begin with.The very first time I saw her, it was the back of the head I saw, and there was somethinglovely about it, the angles of it. Like a shiny, hard corn kernel or a riverbed fossil. Shehad what the Victorians would call a nely shaped head. You could imagine the skullquite easily.I’d know her head anywhere.And what’s inside it. I think of that too: her mind. Her brain, all those coils, and herthoughts shuttling through those coils like fast, frantic centipedes. Like a child, I pictureopening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pindown her thoughts.
What are you thinking, Amy? The question I’ve asked most oftenduring our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I supposethese questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking? How are youfeeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?My eyes ipped open at exactly six A.M. This was no avian uttering of the lashes,no gentle blink toward consciousness. The awakening was mechanical.
A spookyventriloquist-dummy click of the lids: The world is black and then, showtime! 6-0-0 theclock said—in my face, rst thing I saw. 6-0-0. It felt di erent. I rarely woke at such arounded time. I was a man of jagged risings: 8:43, 11:51, 9:26. My life was alarmless.At that exact moment, 6-0-0, the sun climbed over the skyline of oaks, revealing itsfull summer angry-god self. Its re ection ared across the river toward our house, along, blaring nger aimed at me through our frail bedroom curtains. Accusing: You havebeen seen.
You will be seen.I wallowed in bed, which was our New York bed in our new house, which we stillcalled the new house, even though we’d been back here for two years. It’s a rented houseright along the Mississippi River, a house that screams Suburban Nouveau Riche, thekind of place I aspired to as a kid from my split-level, shag-carpet side of town. Thekind of house that is immediately familiar: a generically grand, unchallenging, new,new, new house that my wife would—and did—detest.“Should I remove my soul before I come inside?” Her rst line upon arrival. It hadbeen a compromise: Amy demanded we rent, not buy, in my little Missouri hometown,in her rm hope that we wouldn’t be stuck here long.
But the only houses for rent wereclustered in this failed development: a miniature ghost town of bank-owned, recessionbusted, price-reduced mansions, a neighborhood that closed before it ever opened. Itwas a compromise, but Amy didn’t see it that way, not in the least. To Amy, it was apunishing whim on my part, a nasty, sel sh twist of the knife. I would drag her,caveman-style, to a town she had aggressively avoided, and make her live in the kind ofhouse she used to mock. I suppose it’s not a compromise if only one of you considers itsuch, but that was what our compromises tended to look like.
One of us was alwaysangry. Amy, usually.Do not blame me for this particular grievance, Amy. The Missouri Grievance. Blamethe economy, blame bad luck, blame my parents, blame your parents, blame theInternet, blame people who use the Internet. I used to be a writer. I was a writer whowrote about TV and movies and books. Back when people read things on paper, backwhen anyone cared about what I thought. I’d arrived in New York in the late ’90s, thelast gasp of the glory days, although no one knew it then.
New York was packed withwriters, real writers, because there were magazines, real magazines, loads of them. Thiswas back when the Internet was still some exotic pet kept in the corner of the publishingworld—throw some kibble at it, watch it dance on its little leash, oh quite cute, itde nitely won’t kill us in the night. Think about it: a time when newly graduatedcollege kids could come to New York and get paid to write. We had no clue that we wereembarking on careers that would vanish within a decade.I had a job for eleven years and then I didn’t, it was that fast.
All around the country,magazines began shuttering, succumbing to a sudden infection brought on by the bustedeconomy. Writers (my kind of writers: aspiring novelists, ruminative thinkers, peoplewhose brains don’t work quick enough to blog or link or tweet, basically old, stubbornblowhards) were through. We were like women’s hat makers or buggy-whipmanufacturers: Our time was done.
Three weeks after I got cut loose, Amy lost her job,such as it was. (Now I can feel Amy looking over my shoulder, smirking at the time I’vespent discussing my career, my misfortune, and dismissing her experience in onesentence. That, she would tell you, is typical. Just like Nick, she would say. It was arefrain of hers: Just like Nick to … and whatever followed, whatever was just like me, wasbad.) Two jobless grown-ups, we spent weeks wandering around our Brooklynbrownstone in socks and pajamas, ignoring the future, strewing unopened mail acrosstables and sofas, eating ice cream at ten A.M.
and taking thick afternoon naps.Then one day the phone rang. My twin sister was on the other end. Margo hadmoved back home after her own New York layo a year before—the girl is one stepahead of me in everything, even shitty luck. Margo, calling from good ole NorthCarthage, Missouri, from the house where we grew up, and as I listened to her voice, Isaw her at age ten, with a dark cap of hair and overall shorts, sitting on ourgrandparents’ back dock, her body slouched over like an old pillow, her skinny legsdangling in the water, watching the river ow over sh-white feet, so intently, utterlyself-possessed even as a child.Go’s voice was warm and crinkly even as she gave this cold news: Our indomitablemother was dying. Our dad was nearly gone—his (nasty) mind, his (miserable) heart,both murky as he meandered toward the great gray beyond.
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