Gone Bitch Read Online Free Page A

at a tapas bar in Soho. We’ve shared some tapas, or at least I think they were tapas. I have no idea what tapas actually means. But girls think it’s cool when you say you’ve been to a tapas bar, so I always pick a tapas bar when planning a night out.
    We decide to invite our husbands by for drinks, so we text them. All of the other girls’ husbands text back that they’ll stop by, because they know they’ll be punished if they don’t. But not Nick. Nick doesn’t even text back.
    I know Nick has a deadline tonight, and that he’ll be fired if he leaves work to come over here. But that doesn’t make me any less mad that he doesn’t come.
    It’s not that I have money and therefore Nick’s having a job doesn’t matter to me. It’s that Nick’s having anything doesn’t matter to me. What matters is whether I am winning versus other girls, whether they’re jealous of me or not. And right now, I am definitely not winning. I am losing.
    Nick calls typical husbands “dancing monkeys” because they’re at their wives’ beck and call. But what happens to dancing monkeys that won’t dance? They get sold to the cosmetics lab for experimentation. I hope Nick likes the feeling of his eyes being burned away by toxic mascara.
    This is an unmitigated disaster. I have completely lost face tonight. Someone please kill me.
    Hmmmmmm...now there’s an idea!
     
     

NICK DUNNE: One Day Gone
     
     
    In my dream, Amy was crawling on the floor through a pool of her own blood, calling to me for help, “Nick! Nick! Nick!”
    And then Go woke me up, saying, “Nick! Nick! Nick!”
    “Awwwwww, why did you wake me?” I said. “I was having the best dream!”
    I shouldn’t have stayed up so late hooking up with Go. I was exhausted. But I had to get going because I had a press conference at the police station in an hour.
    Go drove me to my house so I could grab some decent clothes for the press conference. Several police canoes were circling around the house. My neighbors Jan and Noelle were out watching the scene, and as I passed by them they told me how sorry they were and that they were praying for Amy’s return. Then as I was getting into my canoe, Jan’s and Noelle’s husbands approached and told me how happy they were for me and that they were praying for Amy not to return.
    When I entered my house, I was surprised to see the cops going through all my stuff and packing a bunch of it into boxes marked Evidence . I noticed that one of the cops was wearing my watch. “What the hell? Give that back,” I said, reaching for it. But he pulled his hand away.
    “I can’t let you touch that, sir,” he said. “It’s evidence.”
    Then I saw one of the cops in the kitchen making himself a sandwich out of some cold cuts he’d found in the fridge. I went over to take the sandwich away from him, but another cop tackled me. “We can’t let you touch this, sir,” the cop with the sandwich said. “It’s evidence.” And then he started eating it.
    I went to my bedroom to grab some clothes, but all the nice stuff had been taken as “evidence,” so the only clean outfit I had left to wear to the press conference was an ‘N Sync T-shirt a friend had given me as a joke gift a couple birthdays ago, along with jean shorts and basketball sneakers.
    I headed to the police station, and when I walked in I saw that Amy’s parents Rand and Marybeth had arrived after taking the red eye from New York. They were standing with their arms around each other, which was no surprise because they were always touching each other in some fashion: hands patting, chins nuzzling, shoulders rubbing. Obviously they were only doing this because they were both gay. It’s sad that they grew up in an era where you couldn’t be openly homosexual, and they felt they had to keep their gayness secret by conspicuously touching each other all the time.
    Rand and Marybeth spotted me and came over. “This is a nightmare,” said Marybeth. “A true