Gone Girl

tanned and sculpted and somber as Ellen introduced her to America. Pinpricks of sweat erupted all over me.
    ELLEN: So, Lance Nicholas Dunne – can you describe his demeanor for us, Shawna? You meet him as everyone is out searching for his missing wife, and Lance Nicholas Dunne is … what?
    SHAWNA: He was very calm, very friendly.
    ELLEN: Excuse me, excuse me. He was friendly and calm ? His wife is missing , Shawna. What kind of man is friendly and calm ?
    The grotesque photo appeared on-screen again. We somehow looked even more cheerful.
    SHAWNA: He was actually a little flirty …
    You should have been nicer to her, Nick. You should have eaten the fucking pie .
    ELLEN: Flirty? While his wife is God knows where and Lance Dunne is … well, I’m sorry, Shawna, but this photo is just … I don’t know a better word than disgusting . This is not how an innocent man looks …
    The rest of the segment was basically Ellen Abbott, professional hatemonger, obsessing over my lack of alibi: ‘ Why doesn’t Lance Nicholas Dunne have an alibi until noon ? Where was he that morning ?’ she drawled in her Texas sheriff’s accent. Her panel of guests agreed that it didn’t look good.
    I phoned Go and she said, ‘Well, you made it almost a week without them turning on you,’ and we cursed for a while. Fucking Shawna crazy bitch whore .
    ‘Do something really, really useful today, active,’ Go advised. ‘People will be watching now.’
    ‘I couldn’t sit still if I wanted to.’
    I drove to St. Louis in a near rage, replaying the TV segment in my head, answering all of Ellen’s questions, shutting her up. Today, Ellen Abbott, you fucking cunt, I tracked down one of Amy’s stalkers. Desi Collings. I tracked him down to get the truth . Me, the hero husband. If I had soaring theme music, I would have played it. Me, the nice working-class guy, taking on the spoiled rich kid. The media would have to bite at that: Obsessive stalkers are more intriguing than run-of-the-mill wife killers. The Elliotts, at least, would appreciate it. I dialed Marybeth, but just got voice mail. Onward.
    As I rolled into his neighborhood, I had to change my Desi vision from rich to extremely, sickly wealthy. The guy lived in a mansion in Ladue that probably cost at least $5 million. White-washed brick, black lacquer shutters, gaslight, and ivy. I’d dressed for the meeting, a decent suit and tie, but I realized as I rang his doorbell that a four-hundred-dollar suit in this neighborhood was more poignant than if I’d shown up in jeans. I could hear a clattering of dress shoes coming from the back of the house to the front, and the door opened with a desuctioning sound, like a refrigerator. Cold air rolled out toward me.
    Desi looked the way I had always wanted to look: like a very handsome, very decent fellow. Something in the eyes, or the jaw. He had deep-set almond eyes, teddy-bear eyes, and dimples in both cheeks. If you saw the two of us together you’d assume he was the good guy.
    ‘Oh,’ Desi said, studying my face. ‘You’re Nick. Nick Dunne. Good God, I’m so sorry about Amy. Come in, come in.’
    He ushered me into a severe living room, manliness as envisioned by a decorator. Lots of dark, uncomfortable leather. He pointed me toward an armchair with a particularly rigid back; I tried to make myself comfortable, as urged, but found the only posture the chair allowed was that of a chastised student: Pay attention and sit up.
    Desi didn’t ask me why I was in his living room. Or explain howhe’d immediately recognized me. Although they were becoming more common, the double takes and cupped whispers.
    ‘May I get you a drink?’ Desi asked, pressing two hands together: business first.
    ‘I’m fine.’
    He sat down opposite me. He was dressed in impeccable shades of navy and cream; even his shoelaces looked pressed. He carried it all off, though. He wasn’t the dismissible fop I’d been hoping for. Desi seemed the definition of a gentleman: a guy who could quote a great poet, order a rare Scotch, and buy a woman the right piece of vintage jewelry. He seemed, in fact, a man who knew inherently what women wanted – across from him, I felt my suit wilt, my manner go clumsy. I had a swelling urge to discuss football and fart. These were the kinds of guys who always got to me.
    ‘Amy. Any leads?’ Desi asked.
    He looked like someone familiar, an actor, maybe.
    ‘No good ones.’
    ‘She was taken … from the home. Is that