Gone Girl

My dad had limitations. That’s what my good-hearted mom always told us. He had limitations, but he meant no harm. It was kind of her to say, but he did do harm. I doubt my sister will ever marry: If she’s sad or upset or angry, she needs to be alone – she fears a man dismissing her womanly tears. I’m just as bad. The good stuff in me I got from my mom. I can joke, I can laugh, I can tease, I can celebrate and support and praise – I can operate in sunlight, basically – but I can’t deal with angry or tearful women. I feel my father’s rage rise up in me in the ugliest way. Amy could tell you about that. She would definitely tell you, if she were here.

I watched Rand and Marybeth for a moment before they saw me. I wondered how furious they’d be with me. I had committed an unforgivable act, not phoning them for so long. Because of my cowardice, my in-laws would always have that night of te

‘Nick,’ Rand Elliott said, spotting me. He took three big strides toward me, and as I braced myself for a punch, he hugged me desperately hard.

‘How are you holding up?’ he whispered into my neck, and began rocking. Finally, he gave a high-pitched gulp, a swallowed sob, and gripped me by the arms. ‘We’re going to find Amy, Nick. It can’t go any other way. Believe that, okay?’ Rand Elliott held me in his blue stare for a few more seconds, then broke up again – three girlish gasps burst from him like hiccups – and Marybeth moved into the huddle, buried her face in her husband’s armpit.

When we parted, she looked up at me with giant stu

When Marybeth asked How are you, it wasn’t a courtesy, it was an existential question. She studied my face, and I was sure she was studying me, and would continue to note my every thought and action. The Elliotts believed that every trait should be considered, judged, categorized. It all means something, it can all be used. Mom, Dad, Baby, they were three advanced people with three advanced degrees in psychology – they thought more before nine a.m. than most people thought all month. I remember once declining cherry pie at di

It was silly but incredibly sweet, these people spending so much energy trying to figure me out. The answer: I don’t like cherries.

By eleven-thirty, the station was a rolling boil of noise. Phones were ringing, people were yelling across the room. A woman whose name I never caught, whom I registered only as a chattering bobblehead of hair, suddenly made her presence known at my side. I had no idea how long she’d been there: ‘… and the main point of this, Nick, is just to get people looking for Amy and knowing she has a family who loves her and wants her back. This will be very controlled. Nick, you will need to – Nick?’

‘Yep.’

‘People will want to hear a quick statement from her husband.’

From across the room, Go was darting toward me. She’d dropped me at the station, then run by The Bar to take care of bar things for thirty minutes, and now she was back, acting like she’d abandoned me for a week, zigzagging between desks, ignoring the young officer who’d clearly been assigned to usher her in, neatly, in a hushed, dignified ma

‘Okay so far?’ Go said, squeezing me with one arm, the dude hug. The Du

‘Nothing, fucking nothing—’

‘You look like you feel awful.’

‘I feel like fucking shit.’ I was about to say what an idiot I was, not listening to her about the booze.

‘I would have finished the bottle, too.’ She patted my back.

‘It’s almost time,’ the PR woman said, again appearing magically.

‘It’s not a bad turnout for a July fourth weekend.’ She started herding us all toward a dismal conference room – aluminum blinds and folding chairs and a clutch of bored reporters – and up onto the platform. I felt like a third-tier speaker at a mediocre convention, me in my business-casual blues, addressing a captive audience of jet-lagged people daydreaming about what they’d eat for lunch. But I could see the journalists perk up when they caught sight of me – let’s say it: a young, decent-looking guy – and then the PR woman placed a cardboard poster on a nearby easel, and it was a blown-up photo of Amy at her most stu

Cameras flashed. I turned away and saw spots. It was surreal. That’s what people always say to describe moments that are merely unusual. I thought: You have no fucking idea what surreal is. My hangover was really warming up now, my left eye throbbing like a heart.

The cameras were clicking, and the two families stood together, all of us with mouths in thin slits, Go the only one looking even close to a real person. The rest of us looked like placeholder humans, bodies that had been dollied in and propped up. Amy, over on her easel, looked more present. We’d all seen these news conferences before – when other women went missing. We were being forced to perform the scene that TV viewers expected: the worried but hopeful family. Caffeine-dazed eyes and ragdoll arms.

My name was being said; the room gave a collective gulp of expectation. Showtime.

When I saw the broadcast later, I didn’t recognise my voice. I barely recognised my face. The booze floating, sludgelike, just beneath the surface of my skin made me look like a fleshy wastrel, just sensuous enough to be disreputable. I had worried about my voice wavering, so I overcorrected and the words came out clipped, like I was reading a stock report. ‘We just want Amy to get home safe …’ Utterly unconvincing, disco

Rand Elliott stepped up and tried to save me: ‘Our daughter, Amy, is a sweetheart of a girl, full of life. She’s our only child, and she’s smart and beautiful and kind. She really is Amazing Amy. And we want her back. Nick wants her back.’ He put a hand on my shoulder, wiped his eyes, and I involuntarily turned steel. My father again: Men don’t cry.

Rand kept talking: ‘We all want her back where she belongs, with her family. We’ve set up a command center over at the Days I

The news reports would show Nick Du

So there it came, out of nowhere, as Rand begged for his daughter’s return: a killer smile.

AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE