Gone Girl

coming off her like heat, I knew she’d open a bottle of wine, or two, and then she’d tell a friend, or her mother, and it would spread like an infection.
    I moved in front of her, barring her way to the door – Andie, please – and she reached up to slap me, and I grabbed her arm, just for defense. Our joined arms moved up and down and up and down like crazed dance partners.
    ‘Let me go, Nick, or I swear.’
    ‘Just stay for a minute. Just listen to me.’
    ‘You, let me go!’
    She moved her face toward mine like she was going to kiss me. She bit me. I jerked back and she shot out the door.

AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE
    FIVE DAYS GONE
    Y ou may call me Ozark Amy. I am ensconced in the Hide-A-Way Cabins (has ever there been a more apt name?), and I sit quietly, watching all the levers and latches I put in place do their work.
    I have shed myself of Nick, and yet I think about him more than ever. Last night at 10:04 p.m. my disposable cell phone rang. (That’s right, Nick, you’re not the only one who knows the old ‘secret cell phone’ trick.) It was the alarm company. I didn’t answer, of course, but now I know Nick has made it as far as his dad’s house. Clue 3. I changed the code two weeks before I disappeared and listed my secret cell as the first number to call. I can picture Nick, my clue in hand, entering his dad’s dusty, stale house, fumbling with the alarm code … then the time runs out. Beep beep beeeep! His cell is listed as the backup if I can’t be reached (and I obviously can’t).
    So he tripped the alarm, and he talked to someone at the alarm company, and so he’s on record as being in his dad’s house after my disappearance. Which is good for the plan. It’s not foolproof, but it doesn’t have to be foolproof. I’ve already left enough for the police to make a case against Nick: the staged scene, the mopped-up blood, the credit-card bills. All these will be found by even the most incompetent police departments. Noelle will spill my pregnancy news very soon (if she hasn’t already). It is enough, especially once the police discover Able Andie (able to suck cock on command). So all these extras, they’re just bonus fuck-yous. Amusing booby traps. I love that I am a woman with booby traps.
    Ellen Abbott is part of my plan too. The biggest cable crime-news show in the country. I adore Ellen Abbott, I love how protective and maternal she gets about all the missing women on her show, and how rabid-dog vicious she is once she seizes on a suspect, usually the husband. She is America’s voice of female righteousness. Which is why I’d really like her to take on my story. The Publicmust turn against Nick. It’s as much a part of his punishment as prison, for darling Nicky – who spends so much time worrying about people liking him – to know he is universally hated. And I need Ellen to keep me apprised of the investigation. Have the police found my diary yet? Do they know about Andie? Have they discovered the bumped-up life insurance? This is the hardest part: waiting for stupid people to figure things out.
    I flip on the TV in my little room once an hour, eager to see if Ellen has picked up my story. She has to, I can’t see how she could resist. I am pretty, Nick is pretty, and I have the Amazing Amy hook. Just before noon, she flares up, promising a special report. I stay tuned, glaring at the TV: Hurry up, Ellen. Or: Hurry up, Ellen . We have that in common: We are both people and entities. Amy and Amy , Ellen and Ellen .
    Tampon commercial, detergent commercial, maxipad commercial, Windex commercial. You’d think all women do is clean and bleed.
    And finally! There I am! My debut!
    I know from the second Ellen shows up, glowering like Elvis, that this is going to be good. A few gorgeous photos of me, a still shot of Nick with his insane love me! grin from the first press conference. News: There has been a fruitless multi-site search for ‘the beautiful young woman with everything going for her.’ News: Nick fucked himself already. Taking candid photos with a townie during a search for me. This is clearly what hooked Ellen, because she is pissed . There he is, Nick in his sweetie-pie mode, the I am the beloved of all women mode, his face pressed against the strange woman’s, as if they’re happy-hour buddies.
    What an idiot. I love it.
    Ellen Abbott is making much of the fact that our backyard leads right to the Mississippi River. I wonder then if it has been leaked – the