Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

finding the angle, exploiting the weakness, always needing, whereas I am new
to this. Needing. Those people who keep backyard pumas and living room
chimps – this must be how they feel when their adorable pet rips them open.
‘You know what, would you guys mind … I feel kinda crummy. Too
much sun, I think.’
They look surprised and a little offended, and I wonder if I’ve got it
wrong – that they are harmless and I’m just paranoid. I’d like to believe that.
‘Sure, sure, of course,’ Jeff says. They shuffle out of my cabin, Jeff
grabbing his beer on the way. A minute later, I hear Ellen Abbott snarling
from Greta’s cabin. The accusatory questions. Why did … Why didn’t … How
can you explain …
Why did I ever let myself get friendly with anyone here? Why didn’t I keep
to myself? How can I explain my actions if I’m found out?
I can’t be discovered. If I were ever found, I’d be the most hated woman
on the planet. I’d go from being the beautiful, kind, doomed, pregnant victim
of a selfish, cheating bastard to being the bitter bitch who exploited the good
hearts of all America’s citizens. Ellen Abbott would devote show after show
to me, angry callers venting their hate: ‘This is just another example of a
spoiled rich girl doing what she wants, when she wants and not thinking of
anyone else’s feelings, Ellen. I think she should disappear for life – in prison!’
Like that, it would go like that. I’ve read conflicting Internet information on
the penalties for faking a death, or framing a spouse for said death, but I know
the public opinion would be brutal. No matter what I do after that – feed
orphans, cuddle lepers – when I died, I’d be known as That Woman Who
Faked Her Death and Framed Her Husband, You Remember.
I can’t allow it.
Hours later, I am still awake, thinking in the dark, when my door rattles, a
gentle bang, Jeff’s bang. I debate, then open it, ready to apologize for my
rudeness before. He’s tugging on his beard, staring at my doormat, then looks
up with amber eyes.
‘Dorothy said you were looking for work,’ he said.
‘Yeah. I guess. I am.’
‘I got something tonight, pay you fifty bucks.’
Amy Elliott Dunne wouldn’t leave her cabin for fifty bucks, but Lydia
and/or Nancy needs work. I have to say yes.