Gone Girl

figure out where Amy had been taking me. After a few hours’ stint here, I’d deal with the third clue. In the meantime, I dialed.
    ‘Yeah,’ came an impatient voice. A baby was crying in the background. I could hear the woman blow the hair off her face.
    ‘Hi, is this – is this Hilary Handy?’
    She hung up. I phoned back.
    ‘Hell o ?’
    ‘Hi there. I think we got cut off before.’
    ‘Would you put this number on your do not call list—’
    ‘Hilary, I’m not selling anything, I’m calling about Amy Dunne – Amy Elliott.’
    Silence. The baby squawked again, a mewl that wavered dangerously between laughter and tantrum.
    ‘What about her?’
    ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen this on TV, but she’s gone missing. She went missing on July fifth under potentially violent circumstances.’
    ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
    ‘I’m Nick Dunne, her husband. I’ve just been calling old friends of hers.’
    ‘Oh yeah?’
    ‘I wondered if you’d had any contact with her. Recently.’
    She breathed into the phone, three deep breaths. ‘Is this because of that, that bullshit back in high school?’ Farther in the background, a child’s wheedling voice yelled out, ‘Moo-oom, I nee-eed you.’
    ‘In a minute, Jack,’ she called into the void behind her. Then returned to me with a bright red voice: ‘Is it? Is that why you’re calling me? Because that was twenty goddamn years ago. More.’
    ‘I know. I know. Look, I have to ask. I’d be an asshole not to ask.’
    ‘Jesus fucking Christ. I’m a mother of three kids now. I haven’t talked to Amy since high school. I learned my lesson. If I saw her on the street, I’d run the other way.’ The baby howled. ‘I gotta go.’
    ‘Just real quick, Hilary—’
    She hung up, and immediately, my disposable vibrated. I ignored it. I had to find a place to stow the damn thing.
    I could feel the presence of someone, a woman, near me, but I didn’t look up, hoping she would go away.
    ‘It’s not even noon, and you already look like you’ve had a full day, poor baby.’
    Shawna Kelly. She had her hair pulled up in a high bubblegum-girl ponytail. She aimed glossed lips at me in a sympathetic pout. ‘You ready for some of my Frito pie?’ She was bearing a casserole dish, holding it just below her breasts, the saran wrap dappled with sweat. She said the words like she was the star of some ’80s hair-rock video: You want summa my pie ?
    ‘Big breakfast. Thanks, though. That’s really kind of you.’
    Instead of going away, she sat down. Under a turquoise tennisskirt, her legs were lotioned so well they reflected. She kicked me with the toe of an unblemished Tretorn. ‘You sleeping, sweetie?’
    ‘I’m holding up.’
    ‘You’ve got to sleep, Nick. You’re no good to anyone if you’re exhausted.’
    ‘I might leave in a little bit, see if I can grab a few hours.’
    ‘I think you should. I really do.’
    I felt a sudden keen gratitude to her. It was my mama’s-boy attitude, rising up. Dangerous. Crush it, Nick .
    I waited for her to go. She needed to go – people were beginning to watch us.
    ‘If you want, I can drive you home right now,’ she said. ‘A nap might be just the thing for you.’
    She reached out to touch my knee, and I felt a burst of rage that she didn’t realize she needed to go. Leave the casserole, you clingy groupie whore, and go . Daddy’s-boy attitude, rising up. Just as bad.
    ‘Why don’t you check in with Marybeth?’ I said brusquely, and pointed to my mother-in-law by the Xerox, making endless copies of Amy’s photo.
    ‘Okay.’ She lingered, so I began ignoring her outright. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Hope you like the pie.’
    The dismissal had stung her, I could tell, because she made no eye contact as she left, just turned and sauntered off. I felt bad, debated apologizing, making nice. Do not go after that woman , I ordered myself.
    ‘Any news?’ It was Noelle Hawthorne, entering the same space Shawna had just vacated. She was younger than Shawna but seemed older – a plump body with dour, wide-spaced mounds for breasts. A frown on her face.
    ‘Not so far.’
    ‘You sure seem to be handling it all okay.’
    I twitched my head at her, unsure what to say.
    ‘Do you even know who I am?’ she asked.
    ‘Of course. You’re Noelle Hawthorne.’
    ‘I’m Amy’s best friend here.’
    I had to remind the police: There were only two options with Noelle. She was either a lying publicity whore – she liked