Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

‘Ha! Never thought I’d hear you say that.’
We stood in the bathtub and turned on the shower. The water sprayed my
naked back and misted the front of Amy’s shirt until she peeled it off. She
pulled off all her clothes, a gleeful striptease, and tossed them over the shower
stall in the same grinning, game manner she had when we first met – I’m up
for anything! – and she turned to me, and I waited for her to swing her hair
around her shoulders like she did when she flirted with me, but her hair was
too short.
‘Now we’re even,’ she said. ‘Seemed rude to be the only one clothed.’
‘I think we’re past etiquette, Amy.’
Look only at her eyes, do not touch her, do not let her touch you.
She moved toward me, put a hand on my chest, let the water trickle
between her breasts. She licked a shower teardrop off her upper lip and
smiled. Amy hated shower spray. She didn’t like getting her face wet, didn’t
like the feel of water pelleting her flesh. I knew this because I was married to
her, and I’d pawed her and harassed her many times in the shower, always to
be turned down. (I know it seems sexy, Nick, but it’s actually not, it’s
something people only do in movies.) Now she was pretending just the
opposite, as if she forgot that I knew her. I backed away.
‘Tell me everything, Amy. But first: Was there ever a baby?’
The baby was a lie. It was the most desolate part for me. My wife as a
murderer was frightening, repulsive, but the baby as a lie was almost
impossible to bear. The baby was a lie, the fear of blood was a lie – during the
past year, my wife had been mostly a lie.
‘How did you set Desi up?’ I asked.
‘I found some twine in one corner of his basement. I used a steak knife to
saw it into four pieces—’
‘He let you keep a knife?’
‘We were friends. You forget.’
She was right. I was thinking of the story she’d told the police: that Desi
had held her captive. I did forget. She was that good a storyteller.
‘Whenever Desi wasn’t around, I’d tie the pieces as tight as I could
around my wrists and ankles so they’d leave these grooves.’
She showed me the lurid lines on her wrists, like bracelets.