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

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.
As I rolled into his neighborhood, I had to change my
Desi vision from rich to extremely, sickly wealthy. The guy
lived in a mansion in Ladue that probably cost at least $5
million. White-washed brick, black lacquer shutters,
gaslight, and ivy. I’d dressed for the meeting, a decent suit
and tie, but I realized as I rang his doorbell that a four-
hundred-dollar suit in this neighborhood was more poignant
than if I’d shown up in jeans. I could hear a clattering of
dress shoes coming from the back of the house to the front,
and the door opened with a desuctioning sound, like a
refrigerator. Cold air rolled out toward me.
Desi looked the way I had always wanted to look: like
a very handsome, very decent fellow. Something in the
eyes, or the jaw. He had deep-set almond eyes, teddy-bear
eyes, and dimples in both cheeks. If you saw the two of us
together you’d assume he was the good guy.

---

‘Oh,’ Desi said, studying my face. ‘You’re Nick. Nick
Dunne. Good God, I’m so sorry about Amy. Come in, come
in.’
He ushered me into a severe living room, manliness
as envisioned by a decorator. Lots of dark, uncomfortable
leather. He pointed me toward an armchair with a