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Nick doesn’t have it down perfect. This morning he wasstroking my hair and asking what else he could do for me, and I said: “My gosh, Nick,why are you so wonderful to me?”He was supposed to say: You deserve it. I love you.But he said, “Because I feel sorry for you.”“Why?”“Because every morning you have to wake up and be you.”I really, truly wish he hadn’t said that. I keep thinking about it. I can’t stop.I don’t have anything else to add.
I just wanted to make sure I had the last word. Ithink I’ve earned that.ACKNOWLEDGMENTSI’ve got to start with Stephanie Kip Rostan, whose smart advice, sound opinions, andgood humor have seen me through three books now. She’s also just really fun to hangout with. Thanks for all the excellent guidance over the years. Many thanks also to JimLevine and Daniel Greenberg and everyone at Levine Greenberg Literary Agency.My editor, Lindsay Sagnette, is a dream: Thank you for lending me your expert ear,for letting me be just the right amount of stubborn, for challenging me to do better, andfor cheering me on during that last stretch—if it weren’t for you, I’d have remained “82.6percent done” forever.Much thanks to Crown publisher Molly Stern for the feedback, the support, the sagecomments, and the endless energy.Gratitude also to Annsley Rosner, Christine Kopprasch, Linda Kaplan, Rachel Meier,Jay Sones, Karin Schulze, Cindy Berman, Jill Flaxman, and E.
Beth Thomas. Thanks asalways to Kirsty Dunseath and the gang at Orion.For my many questions about police and legal procedures, I turned to some verygracious experts. Thanks to my uncle, the Hon. Robert M. Schieber, and to Lt. Emmet B.Helrich for always letting me run ideas by them. Huge thanks this round to defenseattorney Molly Hastings in Kansas City, who explained her job with great grace andconviction.
And endless gratitude to Det. Craig Enloe of the Overland Park PoliceDepartment for answering my 42,000 e-mails (a modest estimate) over the past twoyears with patience, good humor, and exactly the right amount of information. Anymistakes are mine.Thanks, for many and varied reasons, to: Trish and Chris Bauer, Katy Caldwell,Jessica and Ryan Cox, Sarah and Alex Eckert, Wade Elliott, Ryan Enright, Mike andPaula Hawthorne, Mike Hillgamyer, Sean Kelly, Sally Kim, Sarah Knight, YocundaLopez, Kameren and Sean Miller, Adam Nevens, Josh Noel, Jess and Jack O’Donnell,Lauren “Fake Party We’re Awesome” Oliver, Brian “Map App” Raftery, Javier Ramirez,Kevin Robinett, Julie Sabo, gg Sakey, Joe Samson, Katie Sigelman, Matt Stearns, Susanand Errol Stone, Deborah Stone, Tessa and Gary Todd, Jenny Williams, Josh Wolk, Billand Kelly Ye, Chicago’s Inner Town Pub (home of the Christmas Morning), and theunsinkable Courtney Maguire.For my wonderful Missouri family—all the Schiebers, the Welshes, the Flynns, andbranches thereof.
Thanks for all the love, support, laughs, pickle rolls, and bourbonslush … basically for making Missouri, as Nick would say, “a magical place.”I received some incredibly helpful feedback from a few readers who are also goodfriends. Marcus Sakey gave me sharp advice about Nick early on over beer and Thaifood. David MacLean and Emily Stone (deareth!) were kind enough to read Gone Girl inthe months leading up to their wedding. It doesn’t seem to have harmed you guys in theleast, and it made the book a lot better, so thanks.
Nothing will stop you from getting tothe Caymans!Scott Brown: Thanks for all the writing retreats during the Gone Girl Years,especially the Ozarks. I’m glad we didn’t sink the paddleboat after all. Thanks for yourincredibly insightful reads, and for always swooping in and helping me articulate whatthe hell it is I’m trying to say. You are a good Monster and a wonderful friend.Thanks to my brother, Travis Flynn, for always being around to answer questionsabout how things actually work.
Much love to Ruth Flynn, Brandon Flynn, and HollyBailey.To my in-laws, Cathy and Jim Nolan, Jennifer Nolan, Megan, Pablo, and XavyMarroquin—and all the Nolans and Samsons: I am very aware of how lucky I am tohave married into your family. Thanks for everything. Cathy, we always knew you hadone hell of a heart, but this past year proved it in so many ways.To my parents, Matt and Judith Flynn. Encouraging, thoughtful, funny, kind,creative, supportive, and still madly in love after more than forty years.
I am, asalways, in awe of you both. Thanks for being so good to me and for always taking thetime to harass strangers into buying my books. And thank you for being so lovely withFlynn—I become a better parent just watching you.Finally, my guys.Roy: Good kitty.Flynn: Beloved boy, I adore you! Also, if you are reading this before the year 2024,you are too little. Put it down and pick up Frumble!Brett: Husband! Father of my child! Dance partner, emergency grilled-cheese maker.The kind of fellow who knows how to pick the wine. The kind of fellow who looks greatin a tux.
Also a zombie-tux. The guy with the generous laugh and the glorious whistle.The guy who has the answer. The man who makes my child laugh till he falls down. Theman who makes me laugh till I fall down. The guy who lets me ask all sorts of invasive,inappropriate, and intrusive questions about being a guy. The man who read and rereadand reread and then reread, and not only gave advice, but gave me a bourbon app.You’re it, baby. Thanks for marrying me.Two words, always.ABOUT THE AUTHORGILLIAN FLYNN is the author of the New York Times bestseller Dark Places, which wasa New Yorker Reviewers’ Favorite, Weekend TODAY Top Summer Read, Publishers WeeklyBest Book of 2009, and a Chicago Tribune Favorite Fiction choice; and Dagger Awardwinner Sharp Objects, which was an Edgar nominee for Best First Novel, a BookSensepick, and a Barnes & Noble Discover selection.
A former writer and critic forEntertainment Weekly, her novels have been published in twenty-eight countries. Shelives in Chicago with her husband and son.ALSO BY GILLIAN FLYNNDark PlacesSharp ObjectsSharp ObjectsChapter OneMy sweater was new, stinging red and ugly. It was May 12 but thetemperature had dipped to the forties, and after four days shivering in my shirtsleeves, Igrabbed cover at a tag sale rather than dig through my boxed-up winter clothes. Springin Chicago.In my gunny-covered cubicle I sat staring at the computer screen.
My story for theday was a limp sort of evil. Four kids, ages two through six, were found locked in aroom on the South Side with a couple of tuna sandwiches and a quart of milk. They’dbeen left three days, urrying like chickens over the food and feces on the carpet. Theirmother had wandered o for a suck on the pipe and just forgotten. Sometimes that’swhat happens.
No cigarette burns, no bone snaps. Just an irretrievable slipping. I’d seenthe mother after the arrest: twenty-two-year-old Tammy Davis, blonde and fat, withpink rouge on her cheeks in two perfect circles the size of shot glasses. I could imagineher sitting on a shambled-down sofa, her lips on that metal, a sharp burst of smoke.Then all was fast oating, her kids way behind, as she shot back to junior high, whenthe boys still cared and she was the prettiest, a glossy-lipped thirteen-year-old whomouthed cinnamon sticks before she kissed.A belly. A smell. Cigarettes and old co ee.
My editor, esteemed, weary Frank Curry,rocking back in his cracked Hush Puppies. His teeth soaked in brown tobacco saliva.“Where are you on the story, kiddo?” There was a silver tack on my desk, point up.He pushed it lightly under a yellow thumbnail.“Near done.” I had three inches of copy. I needed ten.“Good. Fuck her, file it, and come to my office.”“I can come now.”“Fuck her, file it, then come to my office.”“Fine. Ten minutes.” I wanted my thumbtack back.He started out of my cubicle.
His tie swayed down near his crotch.“Preaker?”“Yes, Curry?”“Fuck her.”Frank Curry thinks I’m a soft touch. Might be because I’m a woman. Might bebecause I’m a soft touch.urry’s o ce is on the third oor. I’m sure he gets panicky-pissed every time helooks out the window and sees the trunk of a tree. Good editors don’t see bark; they seeleaves—if they can even make out trees from up on the twentieth, thirtieth oor. But forthe Daily Post, fourth-largest paper in Chicago, relegated to the suburbs, there’s room tosprawl.
Three oors will do, spreading relentlessly outward, like a spill, unnoticedamong the carpet retailers and lamp shops. A corporate developer produced ourtownship over three well-organized years—1961–64—then named it after his daughter,Cwho’d su ered a serious equestrian accident a month before the job was nished. AuroraSprings, he ordered, pausing for a photo by a brand-new city sign.
Then he took hisfamily and left. The daughter, now in her fties and ne except for an occasionaltingling in her arms, lives in Florida and returns every few years to take a photo by hernamesake sign, just like Pop.I wrote the story on her last visit. Curry hated it, hates most slice-of-life pieces. Hegot smashed o old Chambord while he read it, left his o ce smelling like raspberries.Curry gets drunk fairly quietly, but often. It’s not the reason, though, that he has such acozy view of the ground.
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