Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

voice comes into my head unbidden, depositing awful thoughts, nasty words.
‘Sir, this is a crime scene, you—’
Stupid bitch.
Suddenly her partner, Riordan, was in the room and on me too, and I was
shaking them off – fine, fine, fuck – and they were forcing me down the stairs.
A woman was on all fours near the front door, squirreling along the
floorboards, searching, I assume for blood spatter. She looked up at me
impassively, then back down.
I forced myself to decompress as I drove back to Go’s to dress. This was
only one in a long series of annoying and asinine things the police would do
in the course of this investigation (I like rules that make sense, not rules
without logic), so I needed to calm down: Do not antagonize the cops, I told
myself. Repeat if necessary: Do not antagonize the cops.
I ran into Boney as I entered the police station, and she said, ‘Your in-laws are
here, Nick’ in an encouraging tone, like she was offering me a warm muffin.
Marybeth and Rand Elliott were standing with their arms around each
other. Middle of the police station, they looked like they were posing for prom
photos. That’s how I always saw them, hands patting, chins nuzzling, cheeks
rubbing. Whenever I visited the Elliott home, I became an obsessive throatclearer
– I’m about to enter – because the Elliotts could be around any corner,
cherishing each other. They kissed each other full on the mouth whenever
they were parting, and Rand would cup his wife’s rear as he passed her. It was
foreign to me. My parents divorced when I was twelve, and I think maybe,
when I was very young, I witnessed a chaste cheek kiss between the two
when it was impossible to avoid. Christmas, birthdays. Dry lips. On their best
married days, their communications were entirely transactional: We’re out of
milk again. (I’ll get some today.) I need this ironed properly. (I’ll do that
today.) How hard is it to buy milk? (Silence.) You forgot to call the plumber.
(Sigh.) Goddammit, put on your coat, right now, and go out and get some
goddamn milk. Now. These messages and orders brought to you by my father,
a mid-level phone-company manager who treated my mother at best like an
incompetent employee. At worst? He never beat her, but his pure, inarticulate
fury would fill the house for days, weeks, at a time, making the air humid,
hard to breathe, my father stalking around with his lower jaw jutting out,
giving him the look of a wounded, vengeful boxer, grinding his teeth so loud
you could hear it across the room. Throwing things near her but not exactly at
her. I’m sure he told himself: I never hit her. I’m sure because of this