Gillian Flynn - Gone Girl:

“You know, it’s funny, how provincial I am, lifetime New Yorker,” Rand said, fingers on the door handle. “When Amy talked about moving back here, back along the Ole Mississippi River, with you, I pictured … green, farmland, apple trees, and those great old red barns. I have to tell you, it’s really quite ugly here.” He laughed. “I can’t think of a single thing of beauty in this whole town. Except for my daughter.”

He got out and strode quickly toward the hotel, and I didn’t try to catch up. I entered the headquarters a few minutes behind him, took a seat at a secluded table toward the back of the room. I needed to complete the treasure hunt before the clues disappeared, 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 tennis skirt, 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 the cachet of being pals with a missing woman—or she was crazy. A stalker determined to befriend Amy, and when Amy shirked her …

“Do you have any information about Amy, Noelle?” I asked.

“Of course I do, Nick . She was my best friend .”

We stared each other down for a few seconds.

“Are you going to share it?” I asked.

“The police know where to find me. If they ever get around to it.”

“That’s super-helpful, Noelle. I’ll make sure they talk to you.”

Her cheeks blazed red, two expressionist splatters of color.

She went away. I thought the unkind thought, one of those that burbled up beyond my control. I thought: Women are fucking crazy . No qualifier: Not some women, not many women. Women are crazy.

Once night fell fully, I drove to my dad’s vacant house, Amy’s clue on the seat beside me.

Maybe you feel guilty for bringing me here

I must admit it felt a bit queer

But it’s not like we had the choice of many a place

We made the decision: We made this our space .

Let’s take our love to this little brown house

Gimme some goodwill, you hot lovin’ spouse!

This one was more cryptic than the others, but I was sure I had it right. Amy was conceding Carthage, finally forgiving me for moving back here. Maybe you feel guilty for bringing me here … [but] We made this our space . The little brown house was my father’s house, which was actually blue, but Amy was making another inside joke. I’d always liked our inside jokes the best—they made me feel more connected to Amy than any amount of confessional truth-telling or passionate lovemaking or talk-till-sunrising. The “little brown house” story was about my father, and Amy is the only person I’d ever told it to: that after the divorce, I saw him so seldom that I decided to think of him as a character in a storybook. He was not my actual father—who would have loved me and spent time with me—but a benevolent and vaguely important figure named Mr. Brown, who was very busy doing very important things for the United States and who (very) occasionally used me as a cover to move more easily about town. Amy got tears in her eyes when I told her this, which I hadn’t meant, I’d meant it as a kids are funny story. She told me she was my family now, that she loved me enough to make up for ten crappy fathers, and that we were now the Dunnes, the two of us. And then she whispered in my ear, “I do have an assignment you might be good for …”