Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

‘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 airconditioning.
Sit down, have a cigar, complain about the wife, tell some
questionable jokes, just us guys here.