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 . Likes, shares and comments are highly appreciated! Gone Girl II Dark Places II Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn 3 Novels in 1 File Gone. On a warm summer morning in North Carthage, Missouri, it is Nick and Amy Dunne's fifth wedding anniversary. Presents are being wrapped.

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    Gone Girl By Gillian Flynn Epub

    There Is No Preview Available For This Item. This item does not appear to have any files that can be experienced on dersdolcemana.ml 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. Title: Gone Girl epub edition, Author: Al Greenshire, Length: 3 pages, suspense writers of our time, New York Times bestseller Gillian Flynn takes that More.

    One of the most critically acclaimed suspense writers of our time, New York Times bestseller Gillian Flynn takes that More Gone Girl epub edition To download now please click the link below. One of the most critically acclaimed suspense writers of our time, New York Times bestseller Gillian Flynn takes that statement to its darkest place in this unputdownable masterpiece about a marriage gone terribly, terribly wrong. As the cops close in, every couple in town is soon wondering how well they know the one that they love. With his twin sister, Margo, at his side, Nick stands by his innocence. And what was in that silvery gift box hidden in the back of her bedroom closet? 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. Reviews: 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!

    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. 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. Amy offered her own notions of Go: 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.

    This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in The Bar — that he. Your mailbox looks awfully full today, Nicky, maybe a package came. The reasons were bogus.

    Carl just needed to hear the clink of glasses, the glug of a drink being poured. I picked up the phone, shaking a tumbler of ice near the receiver so Carl could imagine his gin.

    I just thought you should know … your door is wide open, and that cat of yours is outside. Driving into our development occasionally makes me shiver, the sheer number of gaping dark houses — homes that have never known inhabitants, or homes that have known owners and seen them ejected, the house standing triumphantly voided, humanless.

    When Amy and I moved in, our only neighbors descended on us: We sat out on our back deck and watched the river, and they all talked ruefully about ARMs, and zero percent interest, and zero money down, and then they all remarked how Amy and I were the only ones with river access, the only ones without children.

    In this whole big house? Four months later, the whole big house lady lost her mortgage battle and disappeared in the night with her three kids. Her house has remained empty. One evening not long ago, I drove past and saw a man, bearded, bedraggled, staring out from behind the picture, floating in the dark like some sad aquarium fish.

    He saw me see him and flickered back into the depths of the house. The next day I left a brown paper bag full of sandwiches on the front step; it sat in the sun untouched for a week, decaying wetly, until I picked it back up and threw it out.

    The complex was always disturbingly quiet. As I neared our home, conscious of the noise of the car engine, I could see the cat was definitely on the steps. This was strange. The cat would waddle straight into the Mississippi River — deedle-de-dum — and float all the way to the Gulf of Mexico into the maw of a hungry bull shark. Bleecker was perched on the edge of the porch, a pudgy but proud sentinel — Private Tryhard.

    As I pulled in to the drive, Carl came out and stood on his own front steps, and I could feel the cat and the old man both watching me as I got out of the car and walked toward the house, the red peonies along the border looking fat and juicy, asking to be devoured. I was about to go into blocking position to get the cat when I saw that the front door was open.

    Carl had.

    This was wide-gaping-ominous open. Carl hovered across the way, waiting for my response, and like some awful piece of performance art, I felt myself enacting Concerned Husband. No Amy. The ironing board was set up, the iron still on, a dress waiting to be pressed.

    I swerved into the living room, and pulled up short. The carpet glinted with shards of glass, the coffee table shattered. End tables were on their sides, books slid across the floor like a card trick. Even the heavy antique ottoman was belly-up, its four tiny feet in the air like something dead. In the middle of the mess was a pair of good sharp scissors.

    Through the kitchen, where a kettle was burning, down to the basement, where the guest room stood empty, and then out the back door. I pounded across our yard onto the slender boat deck leading out over the river. Amy was not there. Amy was gone. Well, well, well. Nick Dunne, Brooklyn party boy, sugar-cloud kisser, disappearing act.

    Eight months, two weeks, couple of days, no word, and then he resurfaces, like it was all part of the plan. He tried to unravel it but could only see a 3 and an 8. He said. And then work clobbered him and suddenly it was March and too embarrassingly late to try to find me. Of course I was angry. I had been angry. Let me set the scene. She said. Gusty September winds. It was him. Together, together.

    It was that easy. Propitious, if you will. And I will. Amazing Amy and the Big Day. Yes, for book twenty, Amazing Amy is getting married! No one cares. No one wanted Amazing Amy to grow up, least of all me. Leave her in kneesocks and hair ribbons and let me grow up, unencumbered by my literary alter ego, my paperbound better half, the me I was supposed to be.

    Still, it was unsettling, the incredibly small order the publisher put in. Now ten thousand. The book-launch party was, accordingly, unfabulous. How do you throw a party for a fictional character who started life as a precocious moppet of six and is now a thirty-year-old bride-to-be who still speaks like a child?

    The whole book made me want to punch Amy right in her stupid, spotless vagina. I read it, of course. I gave the book my blessing — multiple times. When I finally quit violin at age twelve, Amy was revealed as a prodigy in the next book.

    [A] Gone girl boek - Gillian Flynn .epub

    That my parents, two child psychologists, chose this particular public form of passive-aggressiveness toward their child was not just fucked up but also stupid and weird and kind of hilarious. So be it. The book party was as schizophrenic as the book — at Bluenight, off Union Square, one of those shadowy salons with wingback chairs and art deco mirrors that are supposed to make you feel like a Bright Young Thing.

    Gin martinis wobbling on trays lofted by waiters with rictus smiles. Greedy journalists with knowing smirks and hollow legs, getting the free buzz before they go somewhere better. My parents circulate the room hand in hand — their love story is always part of the Amazing Amy story: Soul mates. They really call themselves that, which makes sense, because I guess they are. I can vouch for it, having studied them, little lonely only child, for many years. Making it look easy, the soul-mate thing.

    People say children from broken homes have it hard, but the children of charmed marriages have their own particular challenges. How does it feel to see Amy finally married to Andy? Question asked by: Ha, ha. No Able Andy in my life right now. Thank God for the open bar. Now you can get back to your party! I wriggle back into the small crowd, where my parents are in full hosting mode, their faces flushed — Rand with his toothy prehistoric-monster-fish smile, Marybeth with her chickeny, cheerful head bobs, their hands intertwined, making each other laugh, enjoying each other, thrilled with each other — and I think, I am so fucking lonely.

    I go home and cry for a while. I am almost thirty-two. I have many friends who are married — not many who are happily married, but many married friends. The few happy ones are like my parents: A smart, pretty, nice girl like me, a girl with so many interests and enthusiasms, a cool job, a loving family. The ones who are not soul-mated — the ones who have settled — are even more dismissive of my singleness: No relationship is perfect, they say — they, who make do with dutiful sex and gassy bedtime rituals, who settle for TV as conversation, who believe that husbandly capitulation — yes, honey, okay, honey — is the same as concord.

    Your petty demands simply make him feel superior, or resentful, and someday he will fuck his pretty, young coworker who asks nothing of him, and you will actually be shocked. Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. But who also kind of likes my bullshit. And yet: Those awful if only relationships: This marriage would be great if only … and you sense the if only list is a lot longer than either of them realizes.

    As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. He gets me. She gets me. So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man — the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed.

    You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine. You both find the exact same things worth remembering. You have the same rhythm. You just know each other.

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    All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. That fast. You think: Oh, here is the rest of my life.

    I waited for the police first in the kitchen, but the acrid smell of the burnt teakettle was curling up in the back of my throat, underscoring my need to retch, so I drifted out on the front porch, sat on the top stair, and willed myself to be calm. Amy always phoned right back. Amy would never have left the house with the teakettle on. Or the door open. Or anything waiting to be ironed.

    Since our move back to Missouri, the loss of her job, her life had revolved devolved? The dress would have been ironed. And there was the living room, signs pointing to a struggle. I wanted the next part to start. It was the best time of day, the July sky cloudless, the slowly setting sun a spotlight on the east, turning everything golden and lush, a Flemish painting. The police rolled up. It felt casual, me sitting on the steps, an evening bird singing in the tree, these two cops getting out of their car at a leisurely pace, as if they were dropping by a neighborhood picnic.

    Kid cops, mid-twenties, confident and uninspired, accustomed to soothing worried parents of curfew-busting teens. Carthage had become a bit a very tiny bit less Caucasian while I was away, but it was still so severely segregated that the only people of color I saw in my daily routine tended to be occupational roamers: I accused her of craving ethnic window dressing, minorities as backdrops.

    It did not go well. I could see his eyes follow a darting bird out over the river. Then he snapped his gaze back toward me, his curled lips telling me he saw what everyone else did. I have a face you want to punch: I smile a lot to make up for my face, but this only sometimes works.

    In college, I even wore glasses for a bit, fake spectacles with clear lenses that I thought would lend me an affable, unthreatening vibe. I threw them out and smiled harder. I waved in the cops: I stood in the entry to the living room and pointed at the destruction.

    He suddenly looked less bored. Their ears were literally pricked. A call had been made out of. Original Download Link: To Brett: The remainder of the bar is, in fact, shitty, a showcase of the shabbiest design offerings of every decade: After Mom died, Go moved into our old house, and we slowly relocated our toys, piecemeal, to The Bar: Our first anniversary, back in New York, I went two for seven.

    This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in The Bar — that he was a functioning but serious alcoholic. Carl had said as much, but seeing it was different. Diana Kim. Published on Oct 16, 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. 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.

    Gone Girl: A Novel PDF/EPub Book by Gillian Flynn - sopo34ngono9

    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. 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.

    Carl just needed to hear the clink of glasses, the glug of a drink being poured. I picked up the phone, shaking a tumbler of ice near the receiver so Carl could imagine his gin. I just thought you should know … your door is wide open, and that cat of yours is outside. Driving into our development occasionally makes me shiver, the sheer number of gaping dark houses — homes that have never known inhabitants, or homes that have known owners and seen them ejected, the house standing triumphantly voided, humanless.

    When Amy and I moved in, our only neighbors descended on us: one middle-aged single mom of three, bearing a casserole; a young father of triplets with a six-pack of beer his wife left at home with the triplets ; an older Christian couple who lived a few houses down; and of course, Carl from across the street.

    We sat out on our back deck and watched the river, and they all talked ruefully about ARMs, and zero percent interest, and zero money down, and then they all remarked how Amy and I were the only ones with river access, the only ones without children. In this whole big house?

    Four months later, the whole big house lady lost her mortgage battle and disappeared in the night with her three kids. Her house has remained empty. One evening not long ago, I drove past and saw a man, bearded, bedraggled, staring out from behind the picture, floating in the dark like some sad aquarium fish.

    He saw me see him and flickered back into the depths of the house. The next day I left a brown paper bag full of sandwiches on the front step; it sat in the sun untouched for a week, decaying wetly, until I picked it back up and threw it out. The complex was always disturbingly quiet.

    As I neared our home, conscious of the noise of the car engine, I could see the cat was definitely on the steps. This was strange. The cat would waddle straight into the Mississippi River — deedle-de-dum — and float all the way to the Gulf of Mexico into the maw of a hungry bull shark.

    Bleecker was perched on the edge of the porch, a pudgy but proud sentinel — Private Tryhard. As I pulled in to the drive, Carl came out and stood on his own front steps, and I could feel the cat and the old man both watching me as I got out of the car and walked toward the house, the red peonies along the border looking fat and juicy, asking to be devoured.

    I was about to go into blocking position to get the cat when I saw that the front door was open. Carl had said as much, but seeing it was different. This was wide-gaping-ominous open.

    Carl hovered across the way, waiting for my response, and like some awful piece of performance art, I felt myself enacting Concerned Husband. No Amy. The ironing board was set up, the iron still on, a dress waiting to be pressed. I swerved into the living room, and pulled up short. The carpet glinted with shards of glass, the coffee table shattered. End tables were on their sides, books slid across the floor like a card trick.

    Even the heavy antique ottoman was belly-up, its four tiny feet in the air like something dead. In the middle of the mess was a pair of good sharp scissors.

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    Through the kitchen, where a kettle was burning, down to the basement, where the guest room stood empty, and then out the back door. I pounded across our yard onto the slender boat deck leading out over the river. Amy was not there. Amy was gone. Nick Dunne, Brooklyn party boy, sugar-cloud kisser, disappearing act.

    Eight months, two weeks, couple of days, no word, and then he resurfaces, like it was all part of the plan. He tried to unravel it but could only see a 3 and an 8. He said. And then work clobbered him and suddenly it was March and too embarrassingly late to try to find me.

    Of course I was angry. I had been angry. Let me set the scene. She said. Gusty September winds. It was him. Together, together. It was that easy. Propitious, if you will. And I will. Amazing Amy and the Big Day. Yes, for book twenty, Amazing Amy is getting married! No one cares. No one wanted Amazing Amy to grow up, least of all me. Nine Days Gone Ten Days Gone Eleven Days Gone Fourteen Days Gone Twenty-Six Days Gone Thirty-Three Days Gone Forty Days Gone Part Three: The Night of the Return Five Days after the Return Thirty Days after the Return Eight Weeks after the Return Nine Weeks after the Return Ten Weeks after the Return Twenty Weeks after the Return Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Gillian Flynn Read Online Swipe version.

    Read Online Continuous version. Download now. download a paper book. Gone by Emma Wildes. Gone by Elisabeth Naughton. Be the first to reply.

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