flynn_gillian_gone_girl (1) (858987), страница 27
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Justboth of us scrapping at each other, the way couples do sometimes.”Rand looked at me as if he had no clue what I was talking about: Scrapping? What isthis scrapping of which you speak?“It was just—about dinner,” I lied. “About what we’d do for dinner for ouranniversary. You know, Amy is a traditionalist about these things—”“The lobster!” Rand interrupted.
He turned to the cops. “Amy cooks lobster everyyear for Nick.”“Right. But there’s nowhere to get lobster in this town, not alive, from the tank, soshe was frustrated. I had the Houston’s reservation—”“I thought you said you didn’t have a Houston’s reservation.” Rand frowned.“Well, yes, sorry, I’m getting confused. I just had the idea of the Houston’sreservation. But I really should have just arranged to have some lobster flown in.”The cops, each of them, raised an accidental eyebrow.
How very fancy.“It’s not that expensive to do. Anyway, we were at this rotten loggerheads, and itwas one of those arguments that got bigger than it should have.” I took a bite of mypancakes. I could feel the heat rushing from under my collar. “We were laughing aboutit within the hour.”“Hunh” was all Boney said.“And where are you on the treasure hunt?” Gilpin asked.I stood up, put down some money, ready to go. I wasn’t the one who was supposedto be playing defense here. “Nowhere, not right yet—it’s hard to think clearly with somuch going on.”“Okay,” Gilpin said. “It’s less likely the treasure hunt is an angle, now that we knowshe was already feeling threatened months ago. But keep me in the loop anyway,okay?”We all shu ed out into the heat. As Rand and I got into our car, Boney called out,“Hey, is Amy still a two, Nick?”I frowned at her.“A size two?” she repeated.“Yes, she is, I think,” I said.
“Yes. She is.”Boney made a face that said Hmmmm, and got in her car.“What do you think that was about?” Rand asked.“Those two, who knows?”We remained silent for most of the way to the hotel, Rand staring out the window atthe rows of fast-food restaurants blinking by, me thinking about my lie—my lies. Wehad to circle to nd a space at the Days Inn; the payroll convention was apparently ahot ticket.“You know, it’s funny, how provincial I am, lifetime New Yorker,” Rand said, ngerson the door handle.
“When Amy talked about moving back here, back along the OleMississippi River, with you, I pictured … green, farmland, apple trees, and those greatold red barns. I have to tell you, it’s really quite ugly here.” He laughed. “I can’t think ofa single thing of beauty in this whole town.
Except for my daughter.”He got out and strode quickly toward the hotel, and I didn’t try to catch up. I enteredthe headquarters a few minutes behind him, took a seat at a secluded table toward theback of the room. I needed to complete the treasure hunt before the clues disappeared,gure out where Amy had been taking me.
After a few hours’ stint here, I’d deal with thethird clue. In the meantime, I dialed.“Yeah,” came an impatient voice. A baby was crying in the background. I could hearthe woman blow the hair off her face.“Hi, is this—is this Hilary Handy?”She hung up. I phoned back.“Hello?”“Hi there. I think we got cut off before.”“Would you put this number on your do not call list—”“Hilary, I’m not selling anything, I’m calling about Amy Dunne—Amy Elliott.”Silence. The baby squawked again, a mewl that wavered dangerously betweenlaughter and tantrum.“What about her?”“I don’t know if you’ve seen this on TV, but she’s gone missing. She went missing onJuly fifth under potentially violent circumstances.”“Oh.
I’m sorry.”“I’m Nick Dunne, her husband. I’ve just been calling old friends of hers.”“Oh yeah?”“I wondered if you’d had any contact with her. Recently.”She breathed into the phone, three deep breaths. “Is this because of that, that bullshitback in high school?” Farther in the background, a child’s wheedling voice yelled out,“Moo-oom, I nee-eed you.”“In a minute, Jack,” she called into the void behind her. Then returned to me with abright red voice: “Is it? Is that why you’re calling me? Because that was twenty goddamnyears ago. More.”“I know. I know.
Look, I have to ask. I’d be an asshole not to ask.”“Jesus fucking Christ. I’m a mother of three kids now. I haven’t talked to Amy sincehigh school. I learned my lesson. If I saw her on the street, I’d run the other way.” Thebaby howled. “I gotta go.”“Just real quick, Hilary—”She hung up, and immediately, my disposable vibrated. I ignored it.
I had to nd aplace to stow the damn thing.I could feel the presence of someone, a woman, near me, but I didn’t look up, hopingshe would go away.“It’s not even noon, and you already look like you’ve had a full day, poor baby.”Shawna Kelly. She had her hair pulled up in a high bubblegum-girl ponytail.
Sheaimed glossed lips at me in a sympathetic pout. “You ready for some of my Frito pie?”She was bearing a casserole dish, holding it just below her breasts, the saran wrapdappled with sweat. She said the words like she was the star of some ’80s hair-rockvideo: You want summa my pie?“Big breakfast. Thanks, though. That’s really kind of you.”Instead of going away, she sat down. Under a turquoise tennis skirt, her legs werelotioned so well they re ected. She kicked me with the toe of an unblemished Tretorn.“You sleeping, sweetie?”“I’m holding up.”“You’ve got to sleep, Nick.
You’re no good to anyone if you’re exhausted.”“I might leave in a little bit, see if I can grab a few hours.”“I think you should. I really do.”I felt a sudden keen gratitude to her. It was my mama’s-boy attitude, rising up.Dangerous. Crush it, Nick.I waited for her to go. She needed to go—people were beginning to watch us.“If you want, I can drive you home right now,” she said. “A nap might be just thething for you.”She reached out to touch my knee, and I felt a burst of rage that she didn’t realize sheneeded to go. Leave the casserole, you clingy groupie whore, and go. Daddy’s-boy attitude,rising up. Just as bad.“Why don’t you check in with Marybeth?” I said brusquely, and pointed to mymother-in-law by the Xerox, making endless copies of Amy’s photo.“Okay.” She lingered, so I began ignoring her outright. “I’ll leave you to it, then.Hope you like the pie.”The dismissal had stung her, I could tell, because she made no eye contact as she left,just turned and sauntered o .
I felt bad, debated apologizing, making nice. Do not goafter that woman, I ordered myself.“Any news?” It was Noelle Hawthorne, entering the same space Shawna had justvacated. She was younger than Shawna but seemed older—a plump body with dour,wide-spaced mounds for breasts. A frown on her face.“Not so far.”“You sure seem to be handling it all okay.”I twitched my head at her, unsure what to say.“Do you even know who I am?” she asked.“Of course. You’re Noelle Hawthorne.”“I’m Amy’s best friend here.”I had to remind the police: There were only two options with Noelle.
She was eithera lying publicity whore—she liked the cachet of being pals with a missing woman—orshe was crazy. A stalker determined to befriend Amy, and when Amy shirked her …“Do you have any information about Amy, Noelle?” I asked.“Of course I do, Nick. She was my best friend.”We stared each other down for a few seconds.“Are you going to share it?” I asked.“The police know where to find me. If they ever get around to it.”“That’s super-helpful, Noelle. I’ll make sure they talk to you.”Her cheeks blazed red, two expressionist splatters of color.She went away. I thought the unkind thought, one of those that burbled up beyondmy control.
I thought: Women are fucking crazy. No quali er: Not some women, not manywomen. Women are crazy.Once night fell fully, I drove to my dad’s vacant house, Amy’s clue on the seat besideme.Maybe you feel guilty for bringing me hereI must admit it felt a bit queerBut it’s not like we had the choice of many a placeWe made the decision: We made this our space.Let’s take our love to this little brown houseGimme some goodwill, you hot lovin’ spouse!This one was more cryptic than the others, but I was sure I had it right. Amy wasconceding Carthage, nally forgiving me for moving back here.
Maybe you feel guilty forbringing me here … [but] We made this our space. The little brown house was my father’shouse, which was actually blue, but Amy was making another inside joke. I’d alwaysliked our inside jokes the best—they made me feel more connected to Amy than anyamount of confessional truth-telling or passionate lovemaking or talk-till-sunrising.
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