Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

‘So,’ I began, ‘I got your messages.’
‘Right. She’s still missing, right? Amy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask you what you think has happened?’ he said. ‘To Amy?’
Fuck it, I wanted a drink. I went into my kitchen – next best thing to my
bar – and poured myself one. I’d been trying to be more careful about the
booze, but it felt so good: the tang of a Scotch, a dark room with the blinding
sun right outside.
‘Can I ask you why you called?’ I replied.
‘I’ve been watching the coverage,’ he said. ‘You’re fucked.’
‘I am. I wanted to talk to you because I thought it was … interesting that
you’d try to get in touch. Considering. The rape charge.’
‘Ah, you know about that,’ he said.
‘I know there was a rape charge, but I don’t necessarily believe you’re a
rapist. I wanted to hear what you had to say.’
‘Yeah.’ I heard him take a gulp of his Scotch, kill it, shake the ice cubes
around. ‘I caught the story on the news one night. Your story. Amy’s. I was in
bed, eating Thai. Minding my own business. Totally fucked me in the head.
Her after all these years.’ He called to the bartender for another. ‘So my
lawyer said no way I should talk to you, but … what can I say? I’m too
fucking nice. I can’t let you twist. God, I wish you could still smoke in bars.
This is a Scotch and cigarette conversation.’
‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘About the assault charge. The rape.’
‘Like I said, man, I’ve seen the coverage, the media is shitting all over
you. I mean, you’re the guy. So I should leave well enough alone – I don’t
need that girl back in my life. Even, like, tangentially. But shit. I wish
someone had done me the favor.’
‘So do me the favor,’ I said.
‘First of all, she dropped the charges – you know that, right?’
‘I know. Did you do it?’
‘Fuck you. Of course I didn’t do it. Did you do it?’
‘No.’