Gillian Flynn - Gone Girl:

She paced the room, chewing a thumbnail. “The police find out about this, and I just don’t even know,” she said. “I’m fucking scared , Nick. This is the first time I’m really scared for you. I can’t believe they haven’t found out yet. They must have pulled your phone records.”

“I used a disposable.”

She paused at that. “That’s even worse. That’s … like premeditation.”

“Premeditated cheating, Go. Yes, I am guilty of that.”

She succumbed for a second, collapsed on the sofa, the new reality settling on her. In truth, I was relieved that Go knew.

“How long?” she asked.

“A little over a year.” I made myself pull my eyes from the floor and look at her directly.

“Over a year ? And you never told me.”

“I was afraid you’d tell me to stop. That you’d think badly of me and then I’d have to stop. And I didn’t want to. Things with Amy—”

“Over a year,” Go said. “And I never even guessed. Eight thousand drunk conversations, and you never trusted me enough to tell me. I didn’t know you could do that, keep something from me that totally.”

“That’s the only thing.”

Go shrugged: How can I believe you now? “You love her?” She gave it a jokey spin to show how unlikely it was.

“Yeah. I really think I do. I did. I do.”

“You do realize, that if you actually dated her, saw her on a regular basis, lived with her, that she would find some fault with you, right? That she would find some things about you that drove her crazy. That she’d make demands of you that you wouldn’t like. That she’d get angry at you?”

“I’m not ten, Go, I know how relationships work.”

She shrugged again: Do you? “We need a lawyer,” she said. “A good lawyer with some PR skills, because the networks, some cable shows, they’re sniffing around. We need to make sure the media doesn’t turn you into the evil philandering husband, because if that happens, I just think it’s all over.”

“Go, you’re sounding a little drastic.” I actually agreed with her, but I couldn’t bear to hear the words aloud, from Go. I had to discredit them.

“Nick, this is a little drastic. I’m going to make some calls.”

“Whatever you want, if it makes you feel better.”

Go jabbed me in the sternum with two hard fingers. “Don’t you fucking pull that with me, Lance . ‘Oh, girls get so overexcited.’ That’s bullshit. You are in a really bad place, my friend. Get your head out of your ass and start helping me fix this.”

Beneath my shirt, I could feel the spot embering on my skin as Go turned away from me and, thank God, went back to her room. I sat on her couch, numb. Then I lay down as I promised myself I’d get up.

I dreamed of Amy: She was crawling across our kitchen floor, hands and knees, trying to make it to the back door, but she was blind from the blood, and she was moving so slowly, too slowly. Her pretty head was strangely misshapen, dented in on the right side. Blood was dripping from one long hank of hair, and she was moaning my name.

I woke and knew it was time to go home. I needed to see the place—the scene of the crime—I needed to face it.

No one was out in the heat. Our neighborhood was as vacant and lonely as the day Amy disappeared. I stepped inside my front door and made myself breathe. Weird that a house so new could feel haunted, and not in the romantic Victorian-novel way, just really gruesomely, shittily ruined. A house with a history, and it was only three years old. The lab technicians had been all over the place; surfaces were smeared and sticky and smudged. I sat down on the sofa, and it smelled like someone, like an actual person, with a stranger’s scent, a spicy aftershave. I opened the windows despite the heat, get in some air. Bleecker trotted down the stairs, and I picked him up and petted him while he purred. Someone, some cop, had overfilled his bowl for me. A nice gesture, after dismantling my home. I set him down carefully on the bottom step, then climbed up to the bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt. I lay down across the bed and put my face in the pillow, the same navy blue pillowcase I’d stared into the morning of our anniversary, The Morning Of.

My phone rang. Go. I picked up.

“ Ellen Abbott is doing a special noon-day show. It’s about Amy. You. I, uh, it doesn’t look good. You want me to come over?”

“No, I can watch it alone, thanks.”

We both hovered on the line. Waiting for the other to apologize.

“Okay, let’s talk after,” Go said.

Ellen Abbott Live was a cable show specializing in missing, murdered women, starring the permanently furious Ellen Abbott, a former prosecutor and victims’ rights advocate. The show opened with Ellen, blow-dried and lip-glossed, glaring at the camera. “A shocking story to report today: a beautiful, young woman who was the inspiration for the Amazing Amy book series. Missing . House torn apart . Hubby is Lance Nicholas Dunne, an unemployed writer who now owns a bar he bought with his wife’s money . Want to know how worried he is? These are photos taken since his wife, Amy Elliott Dunne, went missing July fifth—their five-year anniversary .”

Cut to the photo of me at the press conference, the jackass grin. Another of me waving and smiling like a pageant queen as I got out of my car (I was waving back to Marybeth; I was smiling because I smile when I wave).

Then up came the cell-phone photo of me and Shawna Kelly, Frito-pie baker. The two of us cheek to cheek, beaming pearly whites. Then the real Shawna appeared on-screen, 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.