Gillian Flynn - Gone Girl:

“Hey, I gotta ask—” Mike started.

I patted his arm and pointed again at the door, as if I had pressing business. I turned away before he could ask any questions and knocked on the door of my own house.

Officer Velásquez escorted me upstairs, into my own bedroom, into my own closet—past the silvery perfect-square gift box—and let me rifle through my things. It made me tense, selecting clothes in front of this young woman with the long brown braid, this woman who had to be judging me, forming an opinion. I ended up grabbing blindly: The final look was business-casual, slacks and short sleeves, like I was going to a convention. It would make an interesting essay, I thought, picking out appropriate clothes when a loved one goes missing. The greedy, angle-hungry writer in me, impossible to turn off.

I jammed it all into a bag and turned back around, looking at the gift box on the floor. “Could I look inside?” I asked her.

She hesitated, then played it safe. “No, I’m sorry, sir. Better not right now.”

The edge of the gift wrapping had been carefully slit. “Has somebody looked inside?”

She nodded.

I stepped around Velásquez toward the box. “If it’s already been looked at then—”

She stepped in front of me. “Sir, I can’t let you do that.”

“This is ridiculous. It’s for me from my wife—”

I stepped back around her, bent down, and had one hand on the corner of the box when she slapped an arm across my chest from behind. I felt a momentary spurt of fury, that this woman presumed to tell me what to do in my own home . No matter how hard I try to be my mother’s son, my dad’s voice comes into my head unbidden, depositing awful thoughts, nasty words.

“Sir, this is a crime scene, you—”

Stupid bitch .

Suddenly her partner, Riordan, was in the room and on me too, and I was shaking them off— fine, fine, fuck —and they were forcing me down the stairs. A woman was on all fours near the front door, squirreling along the floorboards, searching, I assume, for blood spatter. She looked up at me impassively, then back down.

I forced myself to decompress as I drove back to Go’s to dress. This was only one in a long series of annoying and asinine things the police would do in the course of this investigation (I like rules that make sense, not rules without logic), so I needed to calm down: Do not antagonize the cops , I told myself. Repeat if necessary: Do not antagonize the cops .

I ran into Boney as I entered the police station, and she said, “Your in-laws are here, Nick,” in an encouraging tone, like she was offering me a warm muffin.

Marybeth and Rand Elliott were standing with their arms around each other. Middle of the police station, they looked like they were posing for prom photos. That’s how I always saw them, hands patting, chins nuzzling, cheeks rubbing. Whenever I visited the Elliott home, I became an obsessive throat-clearer —I’m about to enter— because the Elliotts could be around any corner, cherishing each other. They kissed each other full on the mouth whenever they were parting, and Rand would cup his wife’s rear as he passed her. It was foreign to me. My parents divorced when I was twelve, and I think maybe, when I was very young, I witnessed a chaste cheek kiss between the two when it was impossible to avoid. Christmas, birthdays. Dry lips. On their best married days, their communications were entirely transactional: We’re out of milk again. (I’ll get some today.) I need this ironed properly. (I’ll do that today.) How hard is it to buy milk? (Silence.) You forgot to call the plumber. (Sigh.) Goddammit, put on your coat, right now, and go out and get some goddamn milk. Now . These messages and orders brought to you by my father, a midlevel phone-company manager who treated my mother at best like an incompetent employee. At worst? He never beat her, but his pure, inarticulate fury would fill the house for days, weeks, at a time, making the air humid, hard to breathe, my father stalking around with his lower jaw jutting out, giving him the look of a wounded, vengeful boxer, grinding his teeth so loud you could hear it across the room. Throwing things near her but not exactly at her. I’m sure he told himself: I never hit her . I’m sure because of this technicality he never saw himself as an abuser. But he turned our family life into an endless road trip with bad directions and a rage-clenched driver, a vacation that never got a chance to be fun. Don’t make me turn this car around . Please, really, turn it around.

I don’t think my father’s issue was with my mother in particular. He just didn’t like women. He thought they were stupid, inconsequential, irritating. That dumb bitch . It was his favorite phrase for any woman who annoyed him: a fellow motorist, a waitress, our grade school teachers, none of whom he ever actually met, parent-teacher conferences stinking of the female realm as they did. I still remember when Geraldine Ferraro was named the 1984 vice presidential candidate, us all watching it on the news before dinner. My mother, my tiny, sweet mom, put her hand on the back of Go’s head and said, Well, I think it’s wonderful . And my dad flipped the TV off and said, It’s a joke. You know it’s a goddamn joke. Like watching a monkey ride a bike .

It took another five years before my mother finally decided she was done. I came home from school one day and my father was gone. He was there in the morning and gone by the afternoon. My mom sat us down at the dining table and announced, “Your father and I have decided it would be best for everyone if we live apart,” and Go burst into tears and said, “Good, I hate you both!” and then, instead of running to her room like the script called for, she went to my mom and hugged her.

So my father went away and my thin, pained mother got fat and happy—fairly fat and extremely happy—as if she were supposed to be that way all along: a deflated balloon taking in air. Within a year, she’d morphed into the busy, warm, cheerful lady she’d be till she died, and her sister said things like “Thank God the old Maureen is back,” as if the woman who raised us was an imposter.

As for my father, for years I spoke to him on the phone about once a month, the conversations polite and newsy, a recital of things that happened . The only question my father ever asked about Amy was “How is Amy?,” which was not meant to elicit any answer beyond “She’s fine.” He remained stubbornly distant even as he faded into dementia in his sixties. If you’re always early, you’re never late . My dad’s mantra, and that included the onset of Alzheimer’s—a slow decline into a sudden, steep drop that forced us to move our independent, misogynistic father to a giant home that stank of chicken broth and piss, where he’d be surrounded by women helping him at all times. Ha.

My dad had limitations. That’s what my good-hearted mom always told us. He had limitations, but he meant no harm. It was kind of her to say, but he did do harm. I doubt my sister will ever marry: If she’s sad or upset or angry, she needs to be alone—she fears a man dismissing her womanly tears. I’m just as bad. The good stuff in me I got from my mom. I can joke, I can laugh, I can tease, I can celebrate and support and praise—I can operate in sunlight, basically—but I can’t deal with angry or tearful women. I feel my father’s rage rise up in me in the ugliest way. Amy could tell you about that. She would definitely tell you, if she were here.

I watched Rand and Marybeth for a moment before they saw me. I wondered how furious they’d be with me. I had committed an unforgivable act, not phoning them for so long. Because of my cowardice, my in-laws would always have that night of tennis lodged in their imagination: the warm evening, the lazy yellow balls bumping along the court, the squeak of tennis shoes, the average Thursday night they’d spent while their daughter was disappeared.