Gone Girl(47)

‘The lobster!’ Rand interrupted. He turned to the cops. ‘Amy cooks lobster every year for Nick.’

‘Right. But there’s nowhere to get lobster in this town, not alive, from the tank, so she was frustrated. I had the Houston’s reservation—’

‘I thought you said you didn’t have a Houston’s reservation.’ Rand frowned.

‘Well, yes, sorry, I’m getting confused. I just had the idea of the Houston’s reservation. But I really should have just arranged to have some lobster flown in.’

The cops, each of them, raised an accidental eyebrow. How very fancy.

‘It’s not that expensive to do. Anyway, we were at this rotten loggerheads, and it was one of those arguments that got bigger than it should have.’ I took a bite of my pancakes. I could feel the heat rushing from under my collar. ‘We were laughing about it within the hour.’

‘Hunh’ was all Boney said.

‘And where are you on the treasure hunt?’ Gilpin asked.

I stood up, put down some money, ready to go. I wasn’t the one who was supposed to be playing defense here. ‘Nowhere, not right yet – it’s hard to think clearly with so much going on.’

‘Okay,’ Gilpin said. ‘It’s less likely the treasure hunt is an angle, now that we know she was already feeling threatened months ago. But keep me in the loop anyway, okay?’

We all shuffled out into the heat. As Rand and I got into our car, Boney called out, ‘Hey, is Amy still a two, Nick?’

I frowned at her.

‘A size two?’ she repeated.

‘Yes, she is, I think,’ I said. ‘Yes. She is.’

Boney made a face that said, Hmmmm, and got in her car.

‘What do you think that was about?’ Rand asked.

‘Those two, who knows?’

We remained silent for most of the way to the hotel, Rand staring out the window at the rows of fast-food restaurants blinking by, me thinking about my lie – my lies. We had to circle to find a space at the Days Inn; the payroll convention was apparently a hot ticket.

‘You know, it’s funny, how provincial I am, lifetime New Yorker,’ Rand said, fingers on the door handle. ‘When Amy talked about moving back here, back along the Ole Mississippi River, with you, I pictured … green, farmland, apple trees, and those great old red barns. I have to tell you, it’s really quite ugly here.’ He laughed. ‘I can’t think of a single thing of beauty in this whole town. Except for my daughter.’

He got out and strode quickly toward the hotel, and I didn’t try to catch up. I entered the headquarters a few minutes behind him, took a seat at a secluded table toward the back of the room. I needed to complete the treasure hunt before the clues disappeared, figure out where Amy had been taking me. After a few hours’ stint here, I’d deal with the third clue. In the meantime, I dialed.

‘Yeah,’ came an impatient voice. A baby was crying in the background. I could hear the woman blow the hair off her face.

‘Hi, is this – is this Hilary Handy?’

She hung up. I phoned back.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi there. I think we got cut off before.’

‘Would you put this number on your do not call list—’

‘Hilary, I’m not selling anything, I’m calling about Amy Dunne – Amy Elliott.’

Silence. The baby squawked again, a mewl that wavered dangerously between laughter and tantrum.

‘What about her?’

‘I don’t know if you’ve seen this on TV, but she’s gone missing. She went missing on July fifth under potentially violent circumstances.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m Nick Dunne, her husband. I’ve just been calling old friends of hers.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I wondered if you’d had any contact with her. Recently.’

She breathed into the phone, three deep breaths. ‘Is this because of that, that bullshit back in high school?’ Farther in the background, a child’s wheedling voice yelled out, ‘Moo-oom, I nee-eed you.’

‘In a minute, Jack,’ she called into the void behind her. Then returned to me with a bright red voice: ‘Is it? Is that why you’re calling me? Because that was twenty goddamn years ago. More.’

‘I know. I know. Look, I have to ask. I’d be an * not to ask.’

‘Jesus f*cking Christ. I’m a mother of three kids now. I haven’t talked to Amy since high school. I learned my lesson. If I saw her on the street, I’d run the other way.’ The baby howled. ‘I gotta go.’

‘Just real quick, Hilary—’

She hung up, and immediately, my disposable vibrated. I ignored it. I had to find a place to stow the damn thing.

I could feel the presence of someone, a woman, near me, but I didn’t look up, hoping she would go away.

‘It’s not even noon, and you already look like you’ve had a full day, poor baby.’

Shawna Kelly. She had her hair pulled up in a high bubblegum-girl ponytail. She aimed glossed lips at me in a sympathetic pout. ‘You ready for some of my Frito pie?’ She was bearing a casserole dish, holding it just below her breasts, the saran wrap dappled with sweat. She said the words like she was the star of some ’80s hair-rock video: You want summa my pie?