Gillian Flynn - Gone Girl:

“No, I won’t take care of it. I do hope Nick dies for what he did to you,” he said. “In a sane society, he would.”

“Well, we’re in an insane society, so I need to stay hidden,” I said. “Do you think that’s horrible of me?” I already know the answer.

“Sweetheart, of course not. You are doing what you’ve been forced to do. It would be madness to do anything else.”

He doesn’t ask anything about the pregnancy. I knew he wouldn’t.

“You’re the only one who knows,” I say.

“I’ll take care of you. What can I do?”

I pretend to balk, chew the edge of my lip, look away and then back to Desi. “I need money to live on for a bit. I thought about getting a job, but—”

“Oh, no, don’t do that. You are everywhere , Amy—on all the newscasts, all the magazines. Someone would recognize you. Even with this”—he touches my hair—“new sporty cut of yours. You’re a beautiful woman, and it’s difficult for beautiful women to disappear.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’re right,” I say. “I just don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage. I just didn’t know where else to—”

The waitress, a plain brunette disguised as a pretty brunette, drops by, sets our drinks on the table. I turn my face from her and see that the mustached curious guy is standing a little closer, watching me with a half smile. I am off my game. Old Amy never would have come here. My mind is addled by Diet Coke and my own body odor.

“I ordered you a gin and tonic,” I say.

Desi gives a delicate grimace.

“What?” I ask, but I already know.

“That’s my spring drink. I’m Jack and gingers now.”

“Then we’ll get you one of those, and I’ll have your gin.”

“No, it’s fine, don’t worry.”

The lookiloo appears again in my peripheral. “Is that guy, that guy with the mustache—don’t look now—is he staring at me?”

Desi gives a flick of a glance, shakes his head. “He’s watching the … singers .” He says the word dubiously. “You don’t just want a little bit of cash. You’ll get tired of this subterfuge. Not being able to look people in the face. Living among”—he spreads his arms out to include the whole casino—“people with whom I assume you don’t have much in common. Living below your means.”

“That’s what it is for the next ten years. Until I’ve aged enough and the story has gone away and I can feel comfortable.”

“Ha! You’re willing to do that for ten years? Amy?”

“Shhh, don’t say the name.”

“Cathy or Jenny or Megan or whatever, don’t be ludicrous.”

The waitress returns, and Desi hands her a twenty and dismisses her. She walks away grinning. Holding the twenty up like it is novel. I take a sip of my drink. The baby won’t mind.

“I don’t think Nick would press charges if you return,” Desi says.

“What?”

“He came by to see me. I think he knows that he’s to blame—”

“He went to see you? When?”

“Last week. Before I’d talked to you, thank God.”

Nick has shown more interest in me these past ten days than he has in the past few years. I’ve always wanted a man to get in a fight over me—a brutal, bloody fight. Nick going to interrogate Desi, that’s a nice start.

“What did he say?” I ask. “How did he seem?”

“He seemed like a top-drawer asshole. He wanted to pin it on me . Told me some insane story about how I—”

I’d always liked that lie about Desi trying to kill himself over me. He had truly been devastated by our breakup, and he’d been really annoying, creepy, hanging around campus, hoping I’d take him back. So he might as well have attempted suicide.

“What did Nick say about me?”

“I think he knows that he can never hurt you now that the world knows and cares about who you are. He’d have to let you come back safely, and you could divorce him and marry the right man.” He took a sip. “At long last.”

“I can’t come back, Desi. Even if people believed everything about Nick’s abuse. I’d still be the one they hated—I was the one who tricked them. I’d be the biggest pariah in the world.”

“You’d be my pariah, and I’d love you no matter what, and I’d shield you from everything,” Desi said. “You would never have to deal with any of it.”

“We’d never be able to socialize with anyone again.”

“We could leave the country if you want. Live in Spain, Italy, wherever you like, spend our days eating mangoes in the sun. Sleep late, play Scrabble, flip through books aimlessly, swim in the ocean.”

“And when I died, I’d be some bizarre footnote—a freak show. No. I do have pride, Desi.”

“I’m not letting you go back to the trailer-park life. I’m not. Come with me, we’ll set you up in the lake house. It’s very secluded. I’ll bring groceries and anything you need, anytime. You can hide out, all alone, until we decide what to do.”

Desi’s lake house was a mansion , and bringing groceries was becoming my lover . I could feel the need coming off him like heat. He was squirming a little under his suit, wanting to make it happen. Desi was a collector: He had four cars, three houses, suites of suits and shoes. He would like knowing I was stowed away under glass. The ultimate white-knight fantasy: He steals the abused princess from her squalid circumstances and places her under his gilded protection in a castle that no one can breach but him.

“I can’t do that. What if the police find out somehow and they come to search?”

“Amy, the police think you’re dead.”

“No, I should be on my own for now. Can I just have a little cash from you?”

“What if I say no?”

“Then I’ll know your offer to help me isn’t genuine. That you’re like Nick and you just want control over me, however you can get it.”

Desi was silent, swallowing his drink with a tight jaw. “That’s a rather monstrous thing to say.”

“It’s a rather monstrous way to act.”

“I’m not acting that way,” he said. “I’m worried about you. Try the lake house. If you feel cramped by me, if you feel uncomfortable, you leave. The worst that can happen is you get a few days’ rest and relaxation.”

The mustached guy is suddenly at our table, a flickering smile on his face. “Ma’am, I don’t suppose you’re any relation to the Enloe family, are you?” he asks.

“No,” I say, and turn away.

“Sorry, you just look like some—”

“We’re from Canada, now excuse us,” Desi snaps, and the guy rolls his eyes, mutters a jeez , and strolls back to the bar. But he keeps glancing at me.

“We should leave,” Desi says. “Come to the lake house. I’ll take you there now.” He stands.

Desi’s lake house would have a grand kitchen, it would have rooms I could traipse around in—I could “hills are alive” twirl in them, the rooms would be so massive. The house would have Wi-Fi and cable—for all my command-center needs—and a gaping bathtub and plush robes and a bed that didn’t threaten to collapse.

It would have Desi too, but Desi could be managed.

At the bar, the guy is still staring at me, less benevolently.

I lean over and kiss Desi gently on the lips. It has to seem like my decision. “You’re such a wonderful man. I’m sorry to put you in this situation.”

“I want to be in this situation, Amy.”

We are on our way out, walking past a particularly depressing bar, TVs buzzing in all corners, when I see the Slut.

The Slut is holding a press conference.

Andie looks tiny and harmless. She looks like a babysitter, and not a sexy porn babysitter but the girl from down the road, the one who actually plays with the kids. I know this is not the real Andie, because I have followed her in real life. In real life she wears snug tops that show off her breasts, and clingy jeans, and her hair long and wavy. In real life she looks fuckable.