Rating: ★★★★☆ Tags: Mystery Detective, General, Fiction

I would never, I could never
, that’s all I hear from your
goddamn 
mouth
. You know, I hate even 
looking
at you
anymore. I really do. There’s something wrong with you.
There’s something missing inside you, to act the way
you’ve been acting. Even if it turns out you’re totally
blameless, I will never forgive you for how casually you’ve
taken all of this. You’d think you mislaid a damn umbrella!
After all Amy gave up for you, after all she did for you, and
this is what she gets in return. It—You – I don’t believe you,
Nick. That’s what I came here to let you know. I don’t
believe in you. Not anymore.’
She began sobbing, turned away, and flung herself out
the front door as the thrilled cameramen filmed her. She got
in the car, and two reporters pressed against the window,
knocking on it, trying to get her to say something. In the
living room, we could hear them repeating and repeating

---

her name. 
Marybeth – Marybeth—
Rand remained, hands in his pockets, trying to figure
out what role to play. Tanner’s voice – 
we have to keep the
Elliotts on our side
– was Greek-chorusing in my ear.
Rand opened his mouth, and I headed him off. ‘Rand,
tell me what I can do.’
‘Just say it, Nick.’
‘Say 
what
?’
‘I don’t want to ask, and you don’t want to answer. I get
that. But I need to hear you say it. You didn’t kill our
daughter.’
He laughed and teared up at the same time. ‘Jesus
Christ, I can’t keep my head straight,’ Rand said. He was
turning pink, flushed, a nuclear sunburn. ‘I can’t figure out
how this is happening. I can’t figure it out!’ He was still
smiling. A tear dribbled on his chin and fell to his shirt
collar. ‘Just say it, Nick.’
‘Rand, I did not kill Amy or hurt her in any way.’ He kept
his eyes on me. ‘Do you believe me, that I didn’t physically
harm
her?’
Rand laughed again. ‘You know what I was about to
say? I was about to say I don’t know what to believe
anymore. And then I thought, that’s someone else’s line.
That’s a line from a movie, not something I should be
saying, and I wonder for a second, am I in a movie? Can I
stop being in this movie? Then I know I can’t. But for a
second, you think, 
I’ll say something different, and this will
all change
. But it won’t, will it?’
With one quick Jack Russell headshake, he turned and
followed his wife to the car.
Instead of feeling sad, I felt alarmed. Before the Elliotts

---

were even out of my driveway, I was thinking: 
We need to
go to the cops quickly, soon
. Before the Elliotts started
discussing their loss of faith in public. I needed to prove my
wife was not who she pretended to be. 
Not Amazing Amy:
Avenging Amy
. I flashed to Tommy O’Hara – the guy who
called the tip line three times, the guy Amy had accused of
raping her. Tanner had gotten some background on him:
He wasn’t the macho Irishman I’d pictured from his name,
not a fire-fighter or cop. He wrote for a humor website
based in Brooklyn, a decent one, and his contributor photo
revealed him to be a scrawny guy with dark-framed glasses
and an uncomfortable amount of thick black hair, wearing a
wry grin and a T-shirt for a band called the Bingos.
He picked up on the first ring. ‘Yeah?’
‘This is Nick Dunne. You called me about my wife. Amy
Dunne. Amy Elliott. I have to talk with you.’
I heard a pause, waited for him to hang up on me like
Hilary Handy.
‘Call me back in ten minutes.’
I did. The background was a bar, I knew the sound well
enough: the murmur of drinkers, the clatter of ice cubes, the
strange pops of noise as people called for drinks or hailed
friends. I had a burst of homesickness for my own place.
‘Okay, thanks,’ he said. ‘Had to get to a bar. Seemed
like a Scotch conversation.’ His voice got progressively
closer, thicker: I could picture him huddling protectively over
a drink, cupping his mouth to the phone.
‘So,’ I began, ‘I got your messages.’
‘Right. She’s still missing, right? Amy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask you what you think has happened?’ he said.

---

‘To Amy?’
Fuck it, I wanted a drink. I went into my kitchen – next
best thing to my bar – and poured myself one. I’d been
trying to be more careful about the booze, but it felt so
good: the tang of a Scotch, a dark room with the blinding
sun right outside.
‘Can I ask you why you called?’ I replied.
‘I’ve been watching the coverage,’ he said. ‘You’re
fucked.’
‘I am. I wanted to talk to you because I thought it was
… interesting that you’d try to get in touch. Considering.
The rape charge.’
‘Ah, you know about that,’ he said.
‘I know there was a rape charge, but I don’t necessarily
believe you’re a rapist. I wanted to hear what you had to
say.’
‘Yeah.’ I heard him take a gulp of his Scotch, kill it,
shake the ice cubes around. ‘I caught the story on the news
one night. Your story. Amy’s. I was in bed, eating Thai.
Minding my own business. Totally fucked me in the head.
Her
after all these years.’ He called to the bartender for
another. ‘So my lawyer said no way I should talk to you, but
… what can I say? I’m too fucking nice. I can’t let you twist.
God, I wish you could still smoke in bars. This is a Scotch
and
cigarette conversation.’
‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘About the assault charge. The rape.’
‘Like I said, man, I’ve seen the coverage, the media is
shitting all over you. I mean, you’re 
the guy
. So I should
leave well enough alone – I don’t need that girl back in my
life. Even, like, tangentially. But shit. I wish someone had
done me the favor.’

---

‘So do me the favor,’ I said.
‘First of all, she dropped the charges – you know that,
right?’
‘I know. Did you do it?’
‘Fuck you. Of course I didn’t do it. Did 
you
do it?’
‘No.’
‘Well.’
Tommy called again for his Scotch. ‘Let me ask: Your
marriage was good? Amy was happy?’
I stayed silent.
‘You don’t have to answer, but I’m going to guess no.
Amy was not happy. For whatever reason. I’m not even
going to ask. I can guess, but I’m not going to ask. But I
know you must know this: Amy likes to play God when she’s
not happy. Old Testament God.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She doles out punishment,’ Tommy said. ‘Hard.’ He
laughed into the phone. ‘I mean, you should see me,’ he
said. ‘I do not look like some alpha-male rapist. I look like a
twerp. I am a twerp. My goto karaoke song is “Sister
Christian,” for crying out loud. I weep during