Gone Girl(150)

Lunch concluded, Desi fiddles with me for a while: my hair, my skin, my clothes, my mind.

“Look at you,” he’ll say, tucking my hair behind my ears the way he likes it, unbuttoning my shirt one notch and loosening it at the neck so he can look at the hollow of my clavicle. He puts a finger in the little indentation, filling the gap. It is obscene. “How can Nick have hurt you, have not loved you, have cheated on you?” He continually hits these points, verbally poking a bruise. “Wouldn’t it be so lovely to just forget about Nick, those awful five years, and move on? You have that chance, you know, to completely start over with the right man. How many people can say that?”

I do want to start over with the right man, the New Nick. Things are looking bad for him, dire. Only I can save Nick from me. But I am trapped.

“If you ever left here and I didn’t know where you were, I’d have to go to the police,” he says. “I’d have no choice. I’d need to make sure you were safe, that Nick wasn’t … holding you somewhere against your will. Violating you.”

A threat disguised as concern.

I look at Desi with outright disgust now. Sometimes I feel my skin must be hot with repulsion and with the effort to keep that repulsion hidden. I’d forgotten about him. The manipulation, the purring persuasion, the delicate bullying. A man who finds guilt erotic. And if he doesn’t get his way, he’ll pull his little levers and set his punishment in motion. At least Nick was man enough to go stick his dick in something. Desi will push and push with his waxy, tapered fingers until I give him what he wants.

I thought I could control Desi, but I can’t. I feel like something very bad is going to happen.





NICK DUNNE

THIRTY-THREE DAYS GONE


The days were loose and long, and then they smashed into a wall. I went out to get groceries one August morning, and I came home to find Tanner in my living room with Boney and Gilpin. On the table, inside a plastic evidence bag, was a long thick club with delicate grooves for fingers.

“We found this just down the river from your home on that first search,” Boney said. “Didn’t look like anything at the time, really. Just some of the weird flotsam on a riverbank, but we keep everything in a search like that. After you showed us your Punch and Judy dolls, it clicked. So we got the lab to check it out.”

“And?” I said. Toneless.

Boney stood up, looked me right in the eye. She sounded sad. “We were able to detect Amy’s blood on it. This case is now classified as a homicide. And we believe this to be the murder weapon.”

“Rhonda, come on!”

“It’s time, Nick,” she said. “It’s time.”

The next part was starting.





AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE

FORTY DAYS GONE


I have found a piece of old twine and an empty wine bottle, and I’ve been using them for my project. Also some vermouth, of course. I am ready.

Discipline. This will take discipline and focus. I am up to the task.

I array myself in Desi’s favorite look: delicate flower. My hair in loose waves, perfumed. My skin has paled after a month inside. I am almost without makeup: a flip of mascara, pink-pink cheeks, and clear lip gloss. I wear a clingy pink dress he bought me. No bra. No panties. No shoes, despite the air-conditioned chill. I have a fire crackling and perfume in the air, and when he arrives after lunch without invitation, I greet him with pleasure. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his neck. I rub my cheek against his. I have been increasingly sweeter to him the past few weeks, but this is new, this clinging.

“What’s this, sweetheart?” he says, surprised and so pleased that I almost feel ashamed.

“I had the worst nightmare last night,” I whisper. “About Nick. I woke up, and all I wanted was to have you here. And in the morning … I’ve spent all day wishing you were here.”

“I can always be here, if you like.”

“I would,” I say, and I turn my face up to him and let him kiss me. His kiss disgusts me; it’s nibbly and hesitant, like a fish. It’s Desi being respectful of his raped, abused woman. He nibbles again, wet cold lips, his hands barely on me, and I just want this all over, I want it done, so I pull him to me and push his lips open with my tongue. I want to bite him.

He pulls back. “Amy,” he says. “You’ve been through a lot. This is fast. I don’t want you to do this fast if you don’t want to. If you’re not sure.”

I know he’s going to have to touch my breasts, I know he’s going to have to push himself inside me, and I want it over, I can barely restrain myself from scratching him: the idea of doing this slowly.