Gone Girl

young Rebecca’s Whodunnit blog. (Rebecca, at least, had remained loyal.) In the videos, I wore clothes Amy had bought me, and I brushed my hair the way she liked, and I tried to read her mind. My anger toward her was like heated wire.
    The camera crews parked themselves on my lawn most mornings.We were like rival soldiers, rooted in shooting distance for months, eyeing each other across no-man’s-land, achieving some sort of perverted fraternity. There was one guy with a voice like a cartoon strongman whom I’d become attached to, sight unseen. He was dating a girl he really, really liked. Every morning his voice boomed in through my windows as he analyzed their dates; things seemed to be going very well. I wanted to hear how the story ended.
    I finished my evening taping to Amy. I was wearing a green shirt she liked on me, and I’d been telling her the story of how we first met, the party in Brooklyn, my awful opening line, just one olive , that embarrassed me every time Amy mentioned it. I talked about our exit from the oversteamed apartment out into the crackling cold, with her hand in mine, the kiss in the cloud of sugar. It was one of the few stories we told the same way. I said it all in the cadence of a bedtime tale: soothing and familiar and repetitive. Always ending with Come home to me, Amy .
    I turned off the camera and sat back on the couch (I always filmed while sitting on the couch under her pernicious, unpredictable cuckoo clock, because I knew if I didn’t show her cuckoo clock, she’d wonder whether I had finally gotten rid of her cuckoo clock, and then she’d stop wondering whether I had finally gotten rid of her cuckoo clock and simply come to believe it was true, and then no matter what sweet words came out of my mouth, she’d silently counter with: ‘ and yet he tossed out my cuckoo clock ’). The cuckoo was, in fact, soon to pop out, its grinding windup beginning over my head – a sound that inevitably made my jaw tense – when the camera crews outside emitted a loud, collective, oceanic wushing. Somebody was here. I heard the seagull cries of a few female news anchors.
    Something is wrong , I thought.
    The doorbell rang three times in a row: Nick-nick! Nick-nick! Nick-nick!
    I didn’t hesitate. I had stopped hesitating over the past month: Bring on the trouble posthaste.
    I opened the door.
    It was my wife.
    Back.
    Amy Elliott Dunne stood barefoot on my doorstep in a thin pink dress that clung to her as if it were wet. Her ankles were ringed in dark violet. From one limp wrist dangled a piece of twine. Her hair was short and frayed at the ends, as if it had been carelessly choppedby dull scissors. Her face was bruised, her lips swollen. She was sobbing.
    When she flung her arms out toward me, I could see her entire midsection was stained with dried blood. She tried to speak; her mouth opened, once, twice, silent, a mermaid washed ashore.
    ‘Nick!’ she finally keened – a wail that echoed against all the empty houses – and fell into my arms.
    I wanted to kill her.
    Had we been alone, my hands might have found their place around her neck, my fingers locating perfect grooves in her flesh. To feel that strong pulse under my fingers … but we weren’t alone, we were in front of cameras, and they were realizing who this strange woman was, they were coming to life as sure as the cuckoo clock inside, a few clicks, a few questions, then an avalanche of noise and light. The cameras were blasting us, the reporters closing in with microphones, everyone yelling Amy’s name, screaming, literally screaming. So I did the right thing, I held her to me and howled her name right back: ‘Amy! My God! My God! My darling!’ and buried my face in her neck, my arms wrapped tight around her, and let the cameras get their fifteen seconds, and I whispered deep inside her ear, ‘You fucking bitch.’ Then I stroked her hair, I cupped her face in my two loving hands, and I yanked her inside.
    Outside our door, a rock concert was demanding its encore: Amy! Amy! Amy! Someone threw a scattering of pebbles at our window. Amy! Amy! Amy!
    My wife took it all as her due, fluttering a dismissive hand toward the rabble outside. She turned to me with a worn but triumphant smile – the smile on the rape victim, the abuse survivor, the bed burner in the old TV movies, the smile where the bastard has finally received due justice and we know our heroine will be able to move on with life ! Freeze frame.
    I