Gone Girl: A Novel

by Gillian Flynn

“I’m a man with a missing wife and a secret … girlfriend. Yeah, it looks bad. It looks criminal.”

  “That makes it sound sleazy.” Her breasts were still out.

  “People don’t know us, Andie. They will think it’s sleazy.”

  “God, it’s like some bad noir movie.”

  I smiled. I’d introduced Andie to noir—to Bogart and The Big Sleep, Double Indemnity, all the classics. It was one of the things I liked best about us, that I could show her things.

  “Why don’t we just tell the police?” she said. “Wouldn’t that be better—”

  “No. Andie, don’t even think about it. No.”

  “They’re going to find out—”

  “Why? Why would they? Have you told anyone about us, sweetheart?”

  She gave me a twitchy look. I felt bad: This was not how she thought the night would go. She had been excited to see me, she had been imagining a lusty reunion, physical reassurance, and I was busy covering my ass.

  “Sweetheart, I’m sorry, I just need to know,” I said.

  “Not by name.”

  “What do you mean, not by name?”

  “I mean,” she said, pulling up her dress finally, “my friends, my mom, they know I’m seeing someone, but not by name.”

  “And not by any kind of description, right?” I said it more urgently than I wanted to, feeling like I was holding up a collapsing ceiling. “Two people know about this, Andie. You and me. If you help me, if you love me, it will just be us knowing, and then the police will never find out.”

  She traced a finger along my jawline. “And what if—if they never find Amy?”

  “You and I, Andie, we’ll be together no matter what happens. But only if we’re careful. If we’re not careful, it’s possible— It looks bad enough that I could go to prison.”

  “Maybe she ran off with someone,” she said, leaning her cheek against my shoulder. “Maybe—”

  I could feel her girl-brain buzzing, turning Amy’s disappearance into a frothy, scandalous romance, ignoring any reality that didn’t suit the narrative.

  “She didn’t run off. It’s much more serious than that.” I put a finger under her chin so she looked at me. “Andie? I need you to take this very seriously, okay?”

  “Of course I’m taking it seriously. But I need to be able to talk to you more often. To see you. I’m freaking out, Nick.”

  “We just need to sit tight for now.” I gripped both her shoulders so she had to look at me. “My wife is missing, Andie.”

  “But you don’t even—”

  I knew what she was about to say—you don’t even love her—but she was smart enough to stop.

  She put her arms around me. “Look, I don’t want to fight. I know you care about Amy, and I know you must be really worried. I am too. I know you are under … I can’t imagine the pressure. So I’m fine keeping an even lower profile than I did before, if that’s possible. But remember, this affects me too. I need to hear from you. Once a day. Just call when you can, even if it’s only for a few seconds, so I can hear your voice. Once a day, Nick. Every single day. I’ll go crazy otherwise. I’ll go crazy.”

  She smiled at me, whispered, “Now kiss me.”

  I kissed her very softly.

  “I love you,” she said, and I kissed her neck and mumbled my reply. We sat in silence, the TV flickering.

  I let my eyes close. Now kiss me, who had said that?

  I lurched awake just after five A.M. Go was up, I could hear her down the hall, running water in the bathroom. I shook Andie—It’s five A.M., it’s five A.M.—and with promises of love and phone calls, I hustled her toward the door like a shameful one-nighter.

  “Remember, call every day,” Andie whispered.

  I heard the bathroom door open.

  “Every day,” I said, and ducked behind the door as I opened it and Andie left.

  When I turned back around, Go was standing in the living room. Her mouth had dropped open, stunned, but the rest of her body was in full fury: hands on hips, eyebrows V’ed.

  “Nick. You fucking idiot.”

  AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE

  JULY 21, 2011

  DIARY ENTRY

  I am such an idiot. Sometimes I look at myself and I think: No wonder Nick finds me ridiculous, frivolous, spoiled, compared to his mom. Maureen is dying. She hides her disease behind big smiles and roomy embroidered sweatshirts, answering every question about her health with: “Oh, I’m just fine, but how are you doing, sweetie?” She is dying, but she is not going to admit it, not yet. So yesterday she phones me in the morning, asks me if I want to go on a field trip with her and her friends—she is having a good day, she wants to get out of the house as much as she can—and I agree immediately, even though I knew they’d be doing nothing that particularly interested me: pinochle, bridge, some church activity that usually requires sorting things.

  “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she says. “Wear short sleeves.”

  Cleaning. It had to be cleaning. Something requiring elbow grease. I throw on a short-sleeve shirt, and in exactly fifteen minutes, I am opening the door to Maureen, bald under a knitted cap, giggling with her two friends. They are all wearing matching appliquéd T-shirts, all bells and ribbons, with the words The PlasMamas airbrushed across their chests.

  I think they’ve started a do-wop group. But then we all climb into Rose’s old Chrysler—old-old, one of those where the front seat goes all the way across, a grandmotherly car that smells of lady cigarettes—and off we merrily go to the plasma donation center.

  “We’re Mondays and Thursdays,” Rose explains, looking at me in the rearview.

  “Oh,” I say. How else does one reply? Oh, those are awesome plasma days!

  “You’re allowed to give twice a week,” says Maureen, the bells on her sweatshirt jingling. “The first time you get twenty dollars, the second time you get thirty. That’s why everyone’s in such a good mood today.”

  “You’ll love it,” Vicky says. “Everyone just sits and chats, like a beauty salon.”

  Maureen squeezes my arm and says quietly, “I can’t give anymore, but I thought you could be my proxy. It might be a nice way for you to get some pin money—it’s good for a girl to have a little cash of her own.”

  I swallow a quick gust of anger: I used to have more than a little cash of my own, but I gave it to your son.

  A scrawny man in an undersize jean jacket hangs around the parking lot like a stray dog. Inside, though, the place is clean. Well lit, piney-smelling, with Christian posters on the wall, all doves and mist. But I know I can’t do it. Needles. Blood. I can’t do either. I don’t really have any other phobias, but those two are solid—I am the girl who swoons at a paper cut. Something about the opening of skin: peeling, slicing, piercing. During chemo with Maureen, I never looked when they put in the needle.

  “Hi, Cayleese!” Maureen calls out as we enter, and a heavy black woman in a vaguely medical uniform calls back, “Hi there, Maureen! How you feeling?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, just fine—but how are you?”

  “How long have you been doing this?” I ask.

  “Awhile,” Maureen says. “Cayleese is everyone’s favorite, she gets the needle in real smooth. Which was always good for me, because I have rollers.” She proffers her forearm with its ropey blue veins. When I first met Mo, she was fat, but no more. It’s odd, she actually looks better fat. “See, try to put your finger on one.”

  I look around, hoping Cayleese is going to usher us in.

  “Go on, try.”

  I touch a fingertip to the vein and feel it roll out from under. A rush of heat overtakes me.

  “So, is this our new recruit?” Cayleese asks, suddenly beside me. “Maureen brags on you all the time. So, we’ll need you to fill out some paperwork—”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. I can’t do needles, I can’t do blood. I have a serious phobia. I literally can’t do it.”

  I realize I haven’t eaten today, and a wave of wo
oziness hits me. My neck feels weak.

  “Everything here is very hygienic, you’re in very good hands,” Cayleese says.

  “No, it’s not that, truly. I’ve never given blood. My doctor gets angry at me because I can’t even handle a yearly blood test for, like, cholesterol.”

  Instead, we wait. It takes two hours, Vicky and Rose strapped to churning machines. Like they are being harvested. They’ve even been branded on their fingers, so they can’t give more than twice in a week anywhere—the marks show up under a purple light.

  “That’s the James Bond part,” Vicky says, and they all giggle. Maureen hums the Bond theme song (I think), and Rose makes a gun with her fingers.

  “Can’t you old biddies keep it down for once?” calls a white-haired woman four chairs down. She leans up over the reclined bodies of three oily men—green-blue tattoos on their arms, stubble on their chins, the kind of men I pictured donating plasma—and gives a finger wave with her loose arm.

  “Mary! I thought you were coming tomorrow!”

  “I was, but my unemployment doesn’t come for a week, and I was down to a box of cereal and a can of creamed corn!”

  They all laugh like near-starvation is amusing—this town is sometimes too much, so desperate and so in denial. I begin to feel ill, the sound of blood churning, the long plastic ribbons of blood coursing from bodies to machines, the people being, what, being farmed. Blood everywhere I look, out in the open, where blood isn’t supposed to be. Deep and dark, almost purple.

  I get up to go to the bathroom, throw cold water on my face. I take two steps and my ears close up, my vision pinholes, I feel my own heartbeat, my own blood, and as I fall, I say, “Oh. Sorry.”

  I barely remember the ride home. Maureen tucks me into bed, a glass of apple juice, a bowl of soup, at the bedside. We try to call Nick. Go says he’s not at The Bar, and he doesn’t pick up his cell.

  The man disappears.

  “He was like that as a boy too—he’s a wanderer,” Maureen says. “Worst thing you could ever do is ground him to his room.” She positions a cool washcloth on my forehead; her breath has the tangy smell of aspirin. “Your job is to rest, okay? I’ll keep calling till I get that boy home.”

  When Nick gets home, I’m asleep. I wake up to hear him taking a shower, and I check the time: 11:04 P.M. He must have gone by The Bar after all—he likes to shower after a shift, get the beer and salty popcorn smell off his skin. (He says.)

  He slips into bed, and when I turn to him with open eyes, he looks dismayed I’m awake.

  “We’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” I say.

  “My phone was out of juice. You fainted?”

  “I thought you said your phone was out of juice.”

  He pauses, and I know he is about to lie. The worst feeling: when you just have to wait and prepare yourself for the lie. Nick is old-fashioned, he needs his freedom, he doesn’t like to explain himself. He’ll know he has plans with the guys for a week, and he’ll still wait until an hour before the poker game to tell me nonchalantly, “Hey, so I thought I’d join the guys for poker tonight, if that’s okay with you,” and leave me to be the bad guy if I’ve made other plans. You don’t ever want to be the wife who keeps her husband from playing poker—you don’t want to be the shrew with the hair curlers and the rolling pin. So you swallow your disappointment and say okay. I don’t think he does this to be mean, it’s just how he was raised. His dad did his own thing, always, and his mom put up with it. Until she divorced him.

  He begins his lie. I don’t even listen.

  NICK DUNNE

  FIVE DAYS GONE

  I leaned against the door, staring at my sister. I could still smell Andie, and I wanted that moment to myself for one second, because now that she was gone, I could enjoy the idea of her. She always tasted like butterscotch and smelled like lavender. Lavender shampoo, lavender lotion. Lavender’s for luck, she explained to me once. I’d need luck.

  “How old is she?” Go was demanding, hands on hips.

  “That’s where you want to start?”

  “How old is she, Nick?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-three. Brilliant.”

  “Go, don’t—”

  “Nick. Do you not realize how fucked you are?” Go said. “Fucked and dumb.” She made dumb—a kid’s word—hit me as hard as if I were a ten-year-old again.

  “It’s not an ideal situation,” I allowed, my voice quiet.

  “Ideal situation! You are … you’re a cheater, Nick. I mean, what happened to you? You were always one of the good guys. Or have I just been an idiot all along?”

  “No.” I stared at the floor, at the same spot I stared at as a kid when my mom sat me down on the sofa and told me I was better than whatever I’d just done.

  “Now? You’re a man who cheats on his wife, you can’t ever undo that,” Go said. “God, even Dad didn’t cheat. You’re so—I mean, your wife is missing, Amy’s who knows where, and you’re here making time with a little—”

  “Go, I enjoy this revisionist history in which you’re Amy’s champion. I mean, you never liked Amy, not even early on, and since all this happened, it’s like—”

  “It’s like I have sympathy for your missing wife, yeah, Nick. I have concern. Yeah, I do. Remember how before, when I said you were being weird? You’re—It’s insane, the way you’re acting.”

  She paced the room, chewing a thumbnail. “The police find out about this, and I just don’t even know,” she said. “I’m fucking scared, Nick. This is the first time I’m really scared for you. I can’t believe they haven’t found out yet. They must have pulled your phone records.”

  “I used a disposable.”

  She paused at that. “That’s even worse. That’s … like premeditation.”

  “Premeditated cheating, Go. Yes, I am guilty of that.”

  She succumbed for a second, collapsed on the sofa, the new reality settling on her. In truth, I was relieved that Go knew.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “A little over a year.” I made myself pull my eyes from the floor and look at her directly.

  “Over a year? And you never told me.”

  “I was afraid you’d tell me to stop. That you’d think badly of me and then I’d have to stop. And I didn’t want to. Things with Amy—”

  “Over a year,” Go said. “And I never even guessed. Eight thousand drunk conversations, and you never trusted me enough to tell me. I didn’t know you could do that, keep something from me that totally.”

  “That’s the only thing.”

  Go shrugged: How can I believe you now? “You love her?” She gave it a jokey spin to show how unlikely it was.

  “Yeah. I really think I do. I did. I do.”

  “You do realize, that if you actually dated her, saw her on a regular basis, lived with her, that she would find some fault with you, right? That she would find some things about you that drove her crazy. That she’d make demands of you that you wouldn’t like. That she’d get angry at you?”

  “I’m not ten, Go, I know how relationships work.”

  She shrugged again: Do you? “We need a lawyer,” she said. “A good lawyer with some PR skills, because the networks, some cable shows, they’re sniffing around. We need to make sure the media doesn’t turn you into the evil philandering husband, because if that happens, I just think it’s all over.”

  “Go, you’re sounding a little drastic.” I actually agreed with her, but I couldn’t bear to hear the words aloud, from Go. I had to discredit them.

  “Nick, this is a little drastic. I’m going to make some calls.”

  “Whatever you want, if it makes you feel better.”

  Go jabbed me in the sternum with two hard fingers. “Don’t you fucking pull that with me, Lance. ‘Oh, girls get so overexcited.’ That’s bullshit. You are in a really bad place, my friend. Get your head out of your ass and start helping me fix this.”

  Beneath my shirt, I could fee
l the spot embering on my skin as Go turned away from me and, thank God, went back to her room. I sat on her couch, numb. Then I lay down as I promised myself I’d get up.

  I dreamed of Amy: She was crawling across our kitchen floor, hands and knees, trying to make it to the back door, but she was blind from the blood, and she was moving so slowly, too slowly. Her pretty head was strangely misshapen, dented in on the right side. Blood was dripping from one long hank of hair, and she was moaning my name.

  I woke and knew it was time to go home. I needed to see the place—the scene of the crime—I needed to face it.

  No one was out in the heat. Our neighborhood was as vacant and lonely as the day Amy disappeared. I stepped inside my front door and made myself breathe. Weird that a house so new could feel haunted, and not in the romantic Victorian-novel way, just really gruesomely, shittily ruined. A house with a history, and it was only three years old. The lab technicians had been all over the place; surfaces were smeared and sticky and smudged. I sat down on the sofa, and it smelled like someone, like an actual person, with a stranger’s scent, a spicy aftershave. I opened the windows despite the heat, get in some air. Bleecker trotted down the stairs, and I picked him up and petted him while he purred. Someone, some cop, had overfilled his bowl for me. A nice gesture, after dismantling my home. I set him down carefully on the bottom step, then climbed up to the bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt. I lay down across the bed and put my face in the pillow, the same navy blue pillowcase I’d stared into the morning of our anniversary, The Morning Of.

  My phone rang. Go. I picked up.

  “Ellen Abbott is doing a special noon-day show. It’s about Amy. You. I, uh, it doesn’t look good. You want me to come over?”

  “No, I can watch it alone, thanks.”

  We both hovered on the line. Waiting for the other to apologize.

  “Okay, let’s talk after,” Go said.

  Ellen Abbott Live was a cable show specializing in missing, murdered women, starring the permanently furious Ellen Abbott, a former prosecutor and victims’ rights advocate. The show opened with Ellen, blow-dried and lip-glossed, glaring at the camera. “A shocking story to report today: a beautiful, young woman who was the inspiration for the Amazing Amy book series. Missing. House torn apart. Hubby is Lance Nicholas Dunne, an unemployed writer who now owns a bar he bought with his wife’s money. Want to know how worried he is? These are photos taken since his wife, Amy Elliott Dunne, went missing July fifth—their five-year anniversary.”