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

NICK DUNNE
SEVEN DAYS GONE
I
t was time. At exactly eight a.m. Central, nine a.m. New
York time, I picked up my phone. My wife was definitely
pregnant. I was definitely the prime – only – suspect. I was
going to get a lawyer, 
today
, and he was going to be the
very lawyer I didn’t want and absolutely needed.
Tanner Bolt. A grim necessity. Flip around any of the
legal networks, the true-crime shows, and Tanner Bolt’s
spray-tanned face would pop up, indignant and concerned
on behalf of whatever freak-show client he was
representing. He became famous at thirty-four for
representing Cody Olsen, a Chicago restaurateur accused
of strangling his very pregnant wife and dumping her body
in a landfill. Corpse dogs detected the scent of a dead
body inside the trunk of Cody’s Mercedes; a search of his
laptop revealed that someone had printed out a map to the
nearest landfill the morning Cody’s wife went missing. A no-
brainer. By the time Tanner Bolt was done, everyone – the
police department, two West Side Chicago gang
members, a disgruntled club bouncer – was implicated
except Cody Olsen, who walked out of the courtroom and
bought cocktails all around.
In the decade since, Tanner Bolt had become known
as the Hubby Hawk – his specialty was swooping down in

---

high-profile cases to represent men accused of murdering
their wives. He was successful over half the time, which
wasn’t bad, considering the cases were usually damning,
the accused extremely unlikable – cheaters, narcissists,
sociopaths. Tanner Bolt’s other nickname was Dickhead
Defender.
I had a two p.m. appointment.
‘This is Marybeth Elliott. Please leave a message, and I will
return promptly …’ she said in voice just like Amy’s. Amy,
who would not return promptly.
I was speeding to the airport to fly to New York and
meet with Tanner Bolt. When I’d asked Boney’s permission
to leave town, she seemed amused: 
Cops don’t really do
that. That’s just on TV
.
‘Hi, Marybeth, it’s Nick again. I’m anxious to talk to you.
I wanted to tell you … uh, I truly didn’t know about the
pregnancy, I’m just as shocked as you must be … uh, also
I’m hiring an attorney, just so you know. I think even Rand
had suggested it. So anyway … you know how bad I am on
messages. I hope you call me back.’
Tanner Bolt’s office was in midtown, not far from where I
used to work. The elevator shot me up twenty-five stories,
but it was so smooth that I wasn’t sure I was moving until my
ears popped. At the twenty-sixth floor, a tight-lipped blonde
in a sleek business suit stepped on. She tapped her foot
impatiently, waiting for the doors to shut, then snapped at
me, ‘Why don’t you hit close?’ I flashed her the smile I give
petulant women, the lighten-up smile, the one Amy called
the ‘beloved Nicky grin,’ and then the woman recognised

---

me. ‘Oh,’ she said. She looked as if she smelled something
rancid. She seemed personally vindicated when I scuttled
out on Tanner’s floor.
This guy was the best, and I needed the best, but I also
resented being associated with him in any way – this
sleazebag, this showboat, this attorney to the guilty. I pre-
hated Tanner Bolt so much that I expected his office to look
like a 
Miami Vice
set. But Bolt & Bolt was quite the
opposite – it was dignified, lawyerly. Behind spotless glass
doors, people in very good suits commuted busily between
offices.
A young, pretty man with a tie the color of tropical fruit
greeted me and settled me down in the shiny glass-and-
mirror reception area and grandly offered water (declined),
then went back to a gleaming desk and picked up a
gleaming phone. I sat on the sofa, watching the skyline,
cranes pecking up and down like mechanical birds. Then I
unfolded Amy’s final clue from my pocket. Five years is
wood. Was that going to be the end prize of the treasure
hunt? Something for the baby: a carved oak cradle, a
wooden rattle? Something for our baby and for us, to start
over, the Dunnes redone.
Go phoned while I was still staring at the clue.
‘Are we okay?’ she asked immediately.
My sister thought I was possibly a wife killer.
‘We’re as okay as I think we can ever be again,
considering.’
‘Nick. I’m sorry. I called to say I’m sorry,’ Go said. ‘I
woke up and felt totally insane. And awful. I lost my head. It
was a momentary freakout. I really, truly apologize.’
I remained silent.

---

‘You got to give me this, Nick: exhaustion and stress
and … I’m sorry … truly.’
‘Okay,’ I lied.
‘But I’m glad, actually. It cleared the air—’
‘She was definitely pregnant.’
My stomach turned. Again I felt as if I had forgotten
something crucial. I had overlooked something and would
pay for it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Go said. She waited a few seconds. ‘The
fact of the matter is—’
‘I can’t talk about it. I can’t.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m actually in New York,’ I said. ‘I have an
appointment with Tanner Bolt.’
She let out a whoosh of breath.
‘Thank God. You were able to see him that quick?’
‘That’s how fucked my case is.’ I’d been patched
through at once to Tanner – I was on hold all of three
seconds after stating my name – and when I told him about
my living room interrogation about the pregnancy, he
ordered me to hop on the next plane.
‘I’m kinda freaking out,’ I added.
‘You’re doing the smart thing. Seriously.’
Another pause.
‘His name can’t really be Tanner Bolt, can it?’ I said,
trying to make light.
‘I heard it’s an anagram for Ratner Tolb.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’
I laughed, an inappropriate feeling, but good. Then,
from the far side of the room, the anagram was walking

---

toward me – black pinstriped suit and lime-green tie,
sharky grin. He walked with his hand out, in shake-and-
strike mode.
‘Nick Dunne, I’m Tanner Bolt. Come with me, let’s get
to work.’
Tanner Bolt’s office seemed designed to resemble the
clubroom of an exclusive all-men’s golf course –
comfortable leather chairs, shelves thick with legal books, a
gas fireplace with flames flickering in the air-conditioning.
Sit down, have a cigar, complain about the wife, tell some
questionable jokes,