Gone Girl

like something from a presidential campaign. In fact, by the time Marybeth was done, the whole room buzzed with efficiency – the urgent hopefulness of a seriously underdog politician with a lot of true believers refusing to give up.
    Just after ten a.m., Boney arrived, talking into her cell phone. She patted me on the shoulder and began fiddling with a printer. The volunteers arrived in bunches: Go and a half dozen of our late mother’s friends. Five forty-something women, all in capri pants, like they were rehearsing a dance show: two of them – slender and blond and tanned – vying for the lead, the others cheerfully resigned to second string. A group of loudmouthed white-haired old ladies, each trying to talk over the next, a few of them texting, the kind of elderly people who have a baffling amount of energy, so much youthful vigor you had to wonder if they were trying to rub it in. Only one man showed up, a good-looking guy about my age, well dressed, alone, failing to realize that his presence could use some explaining. I watched Loner Guy as he sniffed around the pastries, sneaking glances at the poster of Amy.
    Boney finished setting up the printer, grabbed a branny-looking muffin, and came to stand by me.
    ‘Do you guys keep an eye on everyone who reports to volunteer?’ I asked. ‘I mean, in case it’s someone—’
    ‘Someone who seems to have a suspicious amount of interest? Absolutely.’ She broke off the edges of the muffin and popped them in her mouth. She dropped her voice. ‘But to tell the truth, serial killers watch the same TV shows we do. They know that we know they like to—’
    ‘Insert themselves into the investigation.’
    ‘That’s it, yup.’ She nodded. ‘So they’re more careful about that kind of thing now. But yeah, we sift through all the kinda-weirdos to make sure they’re just, you know, kinda-weirdos.’
    I raised an eyebrow.
    ‘Like, Gilpin and I were lead detectives on the Kayla Holman case few years back. Kayla Holman?’
    I shook my head: no bell.
    ‘Anyway, you’ll find some ghouls get attracted to stuff like this. And watch out for those two—’ Boney pointed toward the two pretty forty-something women. ‘Because they look like the type. To get a little too interested in consoling the worried husband.’
    ‘Oh, come on—’
    ‘You’d be surprised. Handsome guy like you. It happens.’
    Just then one of the women, the blonder and tanner, looked over at us, made eye contact, and smiled the gentlest, shyest smile at me, then ducked her head like a cat waiting to be petted.
    ‘She’ll work hard, though; she’ll be Little Miss Involved,’ Boney said. ‘So that’s good.’
    ‘How’d the Kayla Holman case turn out?’ I asked.
    She shook her head: no .
    Four more women filed in, passing a bottle of sunblock among themselves, slathering it on bare arms and shoulders and noses. The room smelled like coconuts.
    ‘By the way, Nick,’ Boney said. ‘Remember when I asked if Amy had friends in town – what about Noelle Hawthorne? You didn’t mention her.’ She left us two messages.
    I gave her a blank stare.
    ‘Noelle in your complex? Mother of triplets?’
    ‘No, they aren’t friends.’
    ‘Oh, funny. She definitely seems to think they are.’
    ‘That happens to Amy a lot,’ I said. ‘She talks to people once, and they latch on. It’s creepy.’
    ‘That’s what her parents said.’
    I debated asking Boney directly about Hilary Handy and Desi Collings. Then I decided not to; I’d look better if I were the one leading the charge. I wanted Rand and Marybeth to see me in action-hero mode. I couldn’t shake the look Marybeth had given me: The police definitely seem to think it’s … close to home .
    ‘People think they know her because they read the books growing up,’ I said.
    ‘I can see that,’ Boney said, nodding. ‘People want to believe they know other people. Parents want to believe they know their kids. Wives want to believe they know their husbands.’
    Another hour and the volunteer center began feeling like a family picnic. A few of my old girlfriends dropped by to say hello, introducetheir kids. One of my mom’s best friends, Vicky, came by with three of her granddaughters, bashful tweens all in pink.
    Grandkids. My mom had talked about grandkids a lot, as if it were doubtlessly going to happen – whenever she bought a new piece of furniture, she’d explain she favored that particular style because ‘it’ll work for