Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

it with water from the lake, pours it across the messy entrails and into the fish
pens. The catfish gobble up the guts of their fallen brethren. The dock is left
clean. He pours one last pail of water across our bloody feet.
‘Why do you have to smash them?’ I ask.
‘Can’t stand to watch something suffer,’ he says. ‘Quick dunk?’
‘I’m okay,’ I say.
‘Not in my car, you’re not – come on, quick dunk, you have more crap on
you than you realize.’
We run off the dock toward the rocky beach nearby. While I wade ankledeep
in the water, Jeff runs with giant splashy footsteps and throws himself
forward, arms wild. As soon as he’s far enough out, I unhook my money belt
and fold my sundress around it, leave it at the water’s edge with my glasses
on top. I lower myself until I feel the warm water hit my thighs, my belly, my
neck, and then I hold my breath and go under.
I swim far and fast, stay underwater longer than I should to remind myself
what it would feel like to drown – I know I could do it if I needed to – and
when I come up with a single disciplined gasp, I see Jeff lapping rapidly
toward shore, and I have to swim fast as a porpoise back to my money belt
and scramble onto the rocks just ahead of him.