Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

‘May I get you a drink?’ Desi asked, pressing two hands together:
business first.
‘I’m fine.’
He sat down opposite me. He was dressed in impeccable shades of navy
and cream; even his shoelaces looked pressed. He carried it all off, though. He
wasn’t the dismissible fop I’d been hoping for. Desi seemed the definition of
a gentleman: a guy who could quote a great poet, order a rare Scotch, and buy
a woman the right piece of vintage jewelry. He seemed, in fact, a man who
knew inherently what women wanted – across from him, I felt my suit wilt,
my manner go clumsy. I had a swelling urge to discuss football and fart.
These were the kinds of guys who always got to me.
‘Amy. Any leads?’ Desi asked.
He looked like someone familiar, an actor, maybe.
‘No good ones.’
‘She was taken … from the home. Is that correct?’
‘From our home, yes.’
Then I knew who he was: He was the guy who’d shown up alone the first
day of searches, the guy who kept sneaking looks at Amy’s photo.
‘You were at the volunteer center, weren’t you? The first day.’
‘I was,’ Desi said, reasonable. ‘I was about to say that. I wish I’d been
able to meet you that day, express my condolences.’
‘Long way to come.’
‘I could say the same to you.’ He smiled. ‘Look, I’m really fond of Amy.
Hearing what had happened, well, I had to do something. I just—It’s terrible
to say this, Nick, but when I saw it on the news, I just thought, Of course.’
‘Of course?’
‘Of course someone would … want her,’ he said. He had a deep voice, a
fireside voice. ‘You know, she always had that way. Of making people want
her. Always. You know that old cliche´: Men want her, and women want to be
her. With Amy, that was true.’
Desi folded large hands across his trousers. Not pants, trousers. I couldn’t
decide if he was fucking with me. I told myself to tread lightly. It’s the rule of
all potentially prickly interviews: Don’t go on the offense until you have to,
first see if they’ll hang themselves all on their own.