Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

NICK DUNNE
THE NIGHT OF
Boney and Gilpin moved our interview to the police station, which looks like
a failing community bank. They left me alone in a little room for forty
minutes, me willing myself not to move. To pretend to be calm is to be calm,
in a way. I slouched over the table, put my chin on my arm. Waited.
‘Do you want to call Amy’s parents?’ Boney had asked.
‘I don’t want to panic them,’ I said. ‘If we don’t hear from her in an hour,
I’ll call.’
We’d done three rounds of that conversation.
Finally, the cops came in and sat at the table across from me. I fought the
urge to laugh at how much it felt like a TV show. This was the same room I’d
seen surfing through late-night cable for the past ten years, and the two cops –
weary, intense – acted like the stars. Totally fake. Epcot Police Station. Boney
was even holding a paper coffee cup and a manila folder that looked like a
prop. Cop prop. I felt giddy, felt for a moment we were all pretend people:
Let’s play the Missing Wife game!
‘You okay there, Nick?’ Boney asked.
‘I’m okay, why?’
‘You’re smiling.’
The giddiness slid to the tiled floor. ‘I’m sorry, it’s all just—’
‘I know,’ Boney said, giving me a look that was like a hand pat. ‘It’s too
strange, I know.’ She cleared her throat. ‘First of all, we want to make sure
you’re comfortable here. You need anything, just let us know. The more
information you can give us right now, the better, but you can leave at any
time, that’s not a problem, either.’
‘Whatever you need.’
‘Okay, great, thank you,’ she said. ‘Um, okay. I want to get the annoying
stuff out of the way first. The crap stuff. If your wife was indeed abducted –
and we don’t know that, but if it comes to that – we want to catch the guy, and
when we catch the guy, we want to nail him, hard. No way out. No wiggle
room.’
‘Right.’