Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

had taken to flinging the word at any woman who even vaguely annoyed him:
bitch bitch bitch. I peered inside a conference room, and there he sat on a
bench against the wall. He had been a handsome man once, intense and cleftchinned.
Jarringly dreamy was how my aunt had described him. Now he sat
muttering at the floor, his blond hair matted, trousers muddy and arms
scratched, as if he’d fought his way through a thornbush. A line of spittle
glimmered down his chin like a snail’s trail, and he was flexing and unflexing
arm muscles that had not yet gone to seed. A tense female officer sat next to
him, her lips in an angry pucker, trying to ignore him: Bitch bitch bitch I told
you bitch.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked her. ‘This is my father.’
‘You got our call?’
‘What call?’
‘To come get your father.’ She overenunciated, as if I were a dim ten-yearold.
‘I – My wife is missing. I’ve been here most of the night.’
She stared at me, not connecting in the least. I could see her debating
whether to sacrifice her leverage and apologise, inquire. Then my father
started up again, bitch bitch bitch, and she chose to keep the leverage.
‘Sir, Comfort Hill has been trying to contact you all day. Your father
wandered out a fire exit early this morning. He’s got a few scratches and
scrapes, as you can see, but no damage. We picked him up a few hours ago,
walking down River Road, disoriented. We’ve been trying to reach you.’
‘I’ve been right here,’ I said. ‘Right goddamn next door, how did no one
put this together?’
Bitch bitch bitch, said my dad.
‘Sir, please don’t take that tone with me.’
Bitch bitch bitch.
Boney ordered an officer – male – to drive my dad back to the home so I
could finish up with them. We stood on the stairs outside the police station,
watched him get settled into the car, still muttering. The entire time he never
registered my presence. When they drove off, he didn’t even look back.
‘You guys not close?’ she asked.
‘We are the definition of not close.’