Gone girl [electronic resource (EPUB eBook)]: a novel / Gillian Flynn. Marriage can be a real killer. On a warm summer morning in North Carthage, Missouri, it is . There Is No Preview Available For This Item. This item does not appear to have any files that can be experienced on computerescue.info To Brett: light of my life, senior and Flynn: light of my life, junior. GILLIAN FLYNN GONE GIRL. CONTENTS. Cover Dedication Title Page Epigraph Part One: Boy.
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On a warm summer morning in North Carthage, Missouri, it is Nick and Amy Dunne's fifth wedding anniversary. Presents are being wrapped. Likes, shares and comments are highly appreciated! Gone Girl II Dark Places II Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn 3 Novels in 1 File Gone. Nominated as one of America's best-loved novels by PBS's The Great American ReadThe #1 New York Times BestsellerOn a warm summer morning in North.
Here s what you do need to know. SOLD Read it!! I ve read this author s prior two novels and they were good. This is fantastic! Start with this one if you are new to Ms. If there s one thing I ve learned, it s that you can never know what goes on between two people behind closed doors. Certainly that idea is at the heart of Gillian Flynn s third thriller, Gone Girl. It s the story Nick and Amy Dunne. Amy has disappeared on the fifth anniversary of their marriage.
There are signs of a struggle at the house. Nick is sick with worry.
Additional interest and suspense are created by the fact that the two narratives are not on the same timeline. What if I tongue the homeless man across from me on the subway? What if I sit down on the floor of this party by myself and eat everything on that deli tray, including the cigarettes? He is the kind of guy who carries himself like he gets laid a lot, a guy who likes women, a guy who would actually fuck me properly.
I would like to be fucked properly! The Fitzgerald fellows tend to be ineffectively porny in bed, a lot of noise and acrobatics to very little end.
The finance guys turn rageful and flaccid. Pause while I count how many … eleven. Not bad. James has up to three other food items in his refrigerator. I could make you an olive with mustard. Just one olive, though. It is a line that is only a little funny, but it already has the feel of an inside joke, one that will get funnier with nostalgic repetition.
Then I catch myself. His name is Nick. I love it. It makes him seem nice, and regular, which he is. I catch three fourths of his movie references.
Two thirds, maybe. Note to self: Rent The Sure Thing. He refills my drink without me having to ask, somehow ferreting out one last cup of the good stuff. It feels nice, after my recent series of nervous, respectful post-feminist men, to be a territory. He should cough out yellow Tweety Bird feathers, the way he smiles at me. He talks to me in his river-wavy Missouri accent; he was born and raised outside of Hannibal, the boyhood home of Mark Twain, the inspiration for Tom Sawyer.
He tells me he worked on a steamboat when he was a teenager, dinner and jazz for the tourists. And when I laugh bratty, bratty New York girl who has never ventured to those big unwieldy middle states, those States Where Many Other People Live , he informs me that Missoura is a magical place, the most beautiful in the world, no state more glorious.
His eyes are mischievous, his lashes are long.
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I can see what he looked like as a boy. It is one a. As we turn the corner, the local bakery is getting its powdered sugar delivered, funneled into the cellar by the barrelful as if it were cement, and we can see nothing but the shadows of the deliverymen in the white, sweet cloud. His eyelashes are trimmed with powder, and before he leans in, he brushes the sugar from my lips so he can taste me.
There was only one customer in the bar, sitting by herself at the far, far end: an older woman named Sue who had come in every Thursday with her husband until he died three months back.
Now she came alone every Thursday, never much for conversation, just sitting with a beer and a crossword, preserving a ritual. My sister was at work behind the bar, her hair pulled back in nerdy-girl barrettes, her arms pink as she dipped the beer glasses in and out of hot suds. Go is slender and strange-faced, which is not to say unattractive.
Her features just take a moment to make sense: the broad jaw; the pinched, pretty nose; the dark globe eyes. My twin, Go.
We even have a dash of twin telepathy.
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Go is truly the one person in the entire world I am totally myself with. I tell her as much as I can. We spent nine months back to back, covering each other. It became a lifelong habit. It never mattered to me that she was a girl, strange for a deeply self-conscious kid. What can I say? She was always just cool.
I think they do. She arched an eyebrow at me. When she caught me staring at the smudged rim, she brought the glass up to her mouth and licked the smudge away, leaving a smear of saliva.
She set the mug squarely in front of me. For my dad, a particularly unwanted stranger. She believes she was left to fend for herself throughout childhood, a pitiful creature of random hand-me-downs and forgotten permission slips, tightened budgets and general regret. This vision could be somewhat true; I can barely stand to admit it. I huddled over my beer.
I needed to sit and drink a beer or three. My nerves were still singing from the morning. The air-conditioning kicked on, ruffling the tops of our heads. We spent more time in The Bar than we needed to. It had become the childhood clubhouse we never had. Christmas in August. After Mom died, Go moved into our old house, and we slowly relocated our toys, piecemeal, to The Bar: a Strawberry Shortcake doll, now scentless, pops up on a stool one day my gift to Go.
We were thinking of introducing a board game night, even though most of our customers were too old to be nostalgic for our Hungry Hungry Hippos, our Game of Life with its tiny plastic cars to be filled with tiny plastic pinhead spouses and tiny plastic pinhead babies.
Deep Hasbro thought for the day. Go refilled my beer, refilled her beer. Her left eyelid drooped slightly. She was one of the original dot-com phenoms — made crazy money for two years, then took the Internet bubble bath in Go remained unflappable. She was closer to twenty than thirty; she was fine. For act two, she got her degree and joined the gray-suited world of investment banking.
She was midlevel, nothing flashy, nothing blameful, but she lost her job — fast — with the financial meltdown. I begged her, cajoled her to return, hearing nothing but peeved silence on the other end. The Bar seemed to cheer her up. She handled the books, she poured the beers.
She stole from the tip jar semi-regularly, but then she did more work than me. We never talked about our old lives. We were Dunnes, and we were done, and strangely content about it. Eh, bad? You look bad. It was an easy question. I shrugged again — a confirmation this time, a whatcha gonna do? Go gave me her amused face, both elbows on the bar, hands cradling chin, hunkering down for an incisive dissection of my marriage.
Go, an expert panel of one. She smoked exactly one a day. Five years. That came fast.
My wife loved games, mostly mind games, but also actual games of amusement, and for our anniversary she always set up an elaborate treasure hunt, with each clue leading to the hiding place of the next clue until I reached the end, and my present. Our first anniversary, back in New York, I went two for seven. That was my best year. The opening parley: This place is a bit of a hole in the wall, But we had a great kiss there one Tuesday last fall.
Ever been in a spelling bee as a kid?
That snowy second after the announcement of the word as you sift your brain to see if you can spell it? It was like that, the blank panic. I bit the side of my lip, started a shrug, scanning our living room as if the answer might appear.
She gave me another very long minute. I finished the shrug. You should have done a clue with Confucius, I would have gotten that.
The place was the point. The moment. I just thought it was special. I do not remember any of those conversations. By the time we got to the end of the day, to exchanging our actual presents — the traditional paper presents for the first year of marriage — Amy was not speaking to me.
Amy was slipping through the Central Park crowds, maneuvering between laser-eyed joggers and scissor-legged skaters, kneeling parents and toddlers careering like drunks, always just ahead of me, tight-lipped, hurrying nowhere. Me trying to catch up, grab her arm.
Happy anniversary, asshole.
It was a reverse O. Help me out. We all exchanged silent smiles as she walked out. Then we both flushed pink in our cheeks in the same spot. It was the kind of raunchy, unsisterly joke that Go enjoyed tossing at me like a grenade.
It was also the reason why, in high school, there were always rumors that we secretly screwed. We were too tight: our inside jokes, our edge-of-the-party whispers. We just really like each other. Go was now pantomiming dick-slapping my wife.
No, Amy and Go were never going to be friends. They were each too territorial. For two people who lived in the same city — the same city twice: first New York, now here — they barely knew each other.
They flitted in and out of my life like well-timed stage actors, one going out the door as the other came in, and on the rare occasions when they both inhabited the same room, they seemed somewhat bemused at the situation.
And: You just seem kind of not yourself with her. And finally: The important thing is she makes you really happy. Back when Amy made me really happy.
Gone Girl epub edition
And: You just have to be in the right mood for her. Neither did. Go was funnier than Amy, though, so it was a mismatched battle. Amy was clever, withering, sarcastic. Amy could get me riled up, could make an excellent, barbed point, but Go always made me laugh. It is dangerous to laugh at your spouse. Go took one more sip of her beer and answered, gave an eyeroll and a smile.
Retired three years. Divorced two years. Moved into our development right after.
Gone Girl epub edition
This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in The Bar — that he was a functioning but serious alcoholic. The reasons were bogus. With her razor-sharp writing and trademark psychological insight, Gillian Flynn delivers a fastpaced, devilishly dark, and ingeniously plotted thriller that confirms her status as one of the hottest writers around.
STOP reading reviews. Here s what you do need to know. SOLD Read it!! I ve read this author s prior two novels and they were good. This is fantastic!
Start with this one if you are new to Ms. If there s one thing I ve learned, it s that you can never know what goes on between two people behind closed doors. Certainly that idea is at the heart of Gillian Flynn s third thriller, Gone Girl. It s the story Nick and Amy Dunne. Amy has disappeared on the fifth anniversary of their marriage. There are signs of a struggle at the house.
Nick is sick with worry. Additional interest and suspense are created by the fact that the two narratives are not on the same timeline.I ve read this author s prior two novels and they were good.
Go was funnier than Amy, though, so it was a mismatched battle. Eight Weeks after the Return My twin sister was on the other end. It is a line that is only a little funny, but it already has the feel of an inside joke, one that will get funnier with nostalgic repetition.
After Mom died, Go moved into our old house, and we slowly relocated our toys, piecemeal, to The Bar: Amy making breakfast. Start on.
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