Gone Girl(112)

“Tanner Bolt? Are you serious?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Nick: Tanner Bolt, are you serious. He only represents guilty people.” She leaned in closer, grabbed my chin. “What’s on your cheek?”

“Hives. Stress.” I turned away from her. “That’s not true about Tanner, Marybeth. It’s not. He’s the best in the business. I need him right now. The police—all they’re doing is looking at me.”

“That certainly seems to be the case,” she said. “It looks like a bite mark.”

“It’s hives.”

Marybeth released an aggravated sigh, turned the corner into the living room. “This is where it happened?” she asked. Her face had collapsed into a series of fleshy ridges—eye bags and saggy cheeks, her lips downcast.

“We think. Some sort of … altercation, confrontation, also happened in the kitchen.”

“Because of the blood.” Marybeth touched the ottoman, tested it, lifted it a few inches, and let it drop. “I wish you hadn’t fixed everything. You made it look like nothing ever happened.”

“Marybeth, he has to live here,” Rand said.

“I still don’t understand how—I mean, what if the police didn’t find everything? What if … I don’t know. It seems like they gave up. If they just let the house go. Open to anyone.”

“I’m sure they got everything,” Rand said, and squeezed her hand. “Why don’t we ask if we can look at Amy’s things so you can pick something special, okay?” He glanced at me. “Would that be all right, Nick? It’d be a comfort to have something of hers.” He turned back to his wife. “That blue sweater Nana knitted for her.”

“I don’t want the goddamn blue sweater, Rand!”

She flung his hand off, began pacing around the room, picking up items. She pushed the ottoman with a toe. “This is the ottoman, Nick?” she asked. “The one they said was flipped over but it shouldn’t have been?”

“That’s the ottoman.”

She stopped pacing, kicked it again, and watched it remain upright.

“Marybeth, I’m sure Nick is exhausted”—Rand glanced at me with a meaningful smile—“like we all are. I think we should do what we came here for and—”

“This is what I came here for, Rand. Not some stupid sweater of Amy’s to snuggle up against like I’m three. I want my daughter. I don’t want her stuff. Her stuff means nothing to me. I want Nick to tell us what the hell is going on, because this whole thing is starting to stink. I never, I never—I never felt so foolish in my life.” She began crying, swiping away the tears, clearly furious at herself for crying. “We trusted you with our daughter. We trusted you, Nick. Just tell us the truth!” She put a quivering index finger under my nose. “Is it true? Did you not want the baby? Did you not love Amy anymore? Did you hurt her?”

I wanted to smack her. Marybeth and Rand had raised Amy. She was literally their work product. They had created her. I wanted to say the words Your daughter is the monster here, but I couldn’t—not until we’d told the police—and so I remained dumbfounded, trying to think of what I could say. But I looked like I was stonewalling. “Marybeth, I would never—”

“I would never, I could never, that’s all I hear from your goddamn mouth. You know, I hate even looking at you anymore. I really do. There’s something wrong with you. There’s something missing inside you, to act the way you’ve been acting. Even if it turns out you’re totally blameless, I will never forgive you for how casually you’ve taken all of this. You’d think you mislaid a damn umbrella! After all Amy gave up for you, after all she did for you, and this is what she gets in return. It— You— I don’t believe you, Nick. That’s what I came here to let you know. I don’t believe in you. Not anymore.”

She began sobbing, turned away, and flung herself out the front door as the thrilled cameramen filmed her. She got in the car, and two reporters pressed against the window, knocking on it, trying to get her to say something. In the living room, we could hear them repeating and repeating her name. Marybeth—Marybeth—

Rand remained, hands in his pockets, trying to figure out what role to play. Tanner’s voice—we have to keep the Elliotts on our side—was Greek-chorusing in my ear.

Rand opened his mouth, and I headed him off. “Rand, tell me what I can do.”

“Just say it, Nick.”

“Say what?”