Gone Girl: A Novel by Gillian Flynn Page B

skulked aroundlooking for things to be angry at. This had turned Go defensive and extremely unlikely to take unwarranted shit. It had turned me into a knee-jerk suckup to authority. Mom, Dad, teachers:
Whatever makes your job easier, sir or madam
. I craved a constant stream of approval. “You’d literally lie, cheat, and steal—hell, kill—to convince people you are a good guy,” Go once said. We were in line for knishes at Yonah Schimmel’s, not far from Go’s old New York apartment—that’s how well I remember the moment—and I lost my appetite because it was so completely true and I’d never realized it, and even as she was saying it, I thought:
I will never forget this, this is one of those moments that will be lodged in my brain forever
.
    We made small talk, the cops and I, about the July Fourth fireworks and the weather, while my hands were tested for gunshot residue and the slick inside of my cheek was cotton-tipped. Pretending it was normal, a trip to the dentist.
    When it was done, Boney put another cup of coffee in front of me, squeezed my shoulder. “I’m sorry about that. Worst part of the job. You think you’re up to a few questions now? It’d really help us.”
    “Yes, definitely, fire away.”
    She placed a slim digital tape recorder on the table in front of me. “You mind? This way you won’t have to answer the same questions over and over and over …” She wanted to tape me so I’d be nailed to one story.
I should call a lawyer
, I thought,
but only guilty people need lawyers
, so I nodded:
No problem
.
    “So: Amy,” Boney said. “You two been living here how long?”
    “Just about two years.”
    “And she’s originally from New York. City.”
    “Yes.”
    “She work, got a job?” Gilpin said.
    “No. She used to write personality quizzes.”
    The detectives swapped a look:
Quizzes?
    “For teen magazines, women’s magazines,” I said. “You know: ‘Are you the jealous type? Take our quiz and find out! Do guys find you too intimidating? Take our quiz and find out!’ ”
    “Very cool, I love those,” Boney said. “I didn’t know that was an actual job. Writing those. Like, a career.”
    “Well, it’s not. Anymore. The Internet is packed with quizzes for free. Amy’s were smarter—she had a master’s in psychology
—has
amaster’s in psychology.” I guffawed uncomfortably at my gaffe. “But smart can’t beat free.”
    “Then what?”
    I shrugged. “Then we moved back here. She’s just kind of staying at home right now.”
    “Oh! You guys got kids, then?” Boney chirped, as if she had discovered good news.
    “No.”
    “Oh. So then what does she do most days?”
    That was my question too. Amy was once a woman who did a little of everything, all the time. When we moved in together, she’d made an intense study of French cooking, displaying hyper-quick knife skills and an inspired boeuf bourguignon. For her thirty-fourth birthday, we flew to Barcelona, and she stunned me by rolling off trills of conversational Spanish, learned in months of secret lessons. My wife had a brilliant, popping brain, a greedy curiosity. But her obsessions tended to be fueled by competition: She needed to dazzle men and jealous-ify women:
Of course Amy can cook French cuisine and speak fluent Spanish and garden and knit and run marathons and day-trade stocks and fly a plane and look like a runway model doing it
. She needed to be Amazing Amy, all the time. Here in Missouri, the women shop at Target, they make diligent, comforting meals, they laugh about how little high school Spanish they remember. Competition doesn’t interest them. Amy’s relentless achieving is greeted with open-palmed acceptance and maybe a bit of pity. It was about the worst outcome possible for my competitive wife: a town of contented also-rans.
    “She has a lot of hobbies,” I said.
    “Anything worrying you?” Boney asked, looking worried. “You’re not concerned about drugs or drinking? I’m not