With each day, more and more details of the Amy Elliott Dunne case emerge, and it seems like with each one, the whole affair gets more and more sordid.
The treasure hunt that she set up for Nick for the anniversary - and the hunt that the detectives are attempting to conduct keep yielding clues, but how they fit together in the grand scheme of things is beyond me. A pair of panties in Nick's office. A diary, apparently Amy's. A lot of random pricey junk, including a robot dog (Seriously, why would anyone over the age of ten want a robot dog in the first place?) that was discovered in Nick's sister's woodshed. Who, by the way, seems like a perfectly nice, normal woman (except to Ellen Abbott) and is probably just a pawn, too. Like me, and maybe even like Nick.
This whole thing is like "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" by way of "The Twilight Zone." I don't envy the detectives, but I wish them luck (I hope persistence and good intentions are enough in this case because even in my brief meeting with them, it was apparent that Amy is a whole lot smarter. Which is not necessarily something to be ashamed of; there aren't many people in this world who are smarter than Amy Elliott.)
Still I'm starting to realize that I have to let this whole thing go, accept that Amy is probably dead or gone for good. I try to picture her, but all I get is a blank. For a few moments, I think I'm going to cry, which would be a relief, but instead I fall back asleep.
I should have known better. Every time I make a resolution to put some distance between myself and this case, something happens to put me back in the midst. It seems I am going to become involved whether or not I want to. (God must have a really warped sense of humor.)
Because the next morning I get a phone call.
From Amy.
I almost drop the phone in shock.
"Where did you get this number?" is what I blurt out first, because my first thought is that it's someone playing a sick joke.
"You gave it to me. Remember?" Like I'm being dense. Well, I did, but I'd forgotten - I can't remember the last time or even if she's ever used it.
"Amy? I thought you were dead," I blurt out. And she starts laughing, not like she's hysterical or anything, but like this is totally normal phone call.
(Come to think of it, Amy also has a warped sense of humor.)
She starts telling me a story about hiding out in the Ozarks where everything was going fine until she got robbed - and I still don't quite follow (probably because I'm still in shock that she's alive), but the gist is that she needs to see me, and she wants to meet at a casino. So I agree, and I admit it, part of me is flattered, but at the same time, I'm dreading this - because now, there's no way I'm not involved in this whole mess. But what else could I have done?
On the way there, I'm trying to stay calm and not panic, but the truth is, I don't know what kind of shape Amy's in or what kind of help I can possibly provide. I do know - their voices keep echoing in my head - exactly what my family members would be advising me - which is, not to get involved. Or thinking that this is the perfect chance for some kind of revenge for humiliating me all those years ago, but people change, right? Anyway, it's too late to change my mind.
So. Here's what happened
Here's what I spent years trying to forget or at least bury and succeeded. Until a few weeks ago.
Tell the truth and the truth shall set you free, right?
When we're dating, Amy and I make plans to get together over a break, but my parents say no, not this time. I see this as unfair, but not entirely unexpected parental decree, but not something that is going to be an insurmountable obstacle in our relationship.
But I am wrong.
When I tell her, Amy gives me a look, which I've since seen at one time or another on the face of every woman I've dated, which indicates that I have somehow disappointed her in a way that I can never fully hope to grasp and so my only chance at getting her forgiveness is to grovel.
"You promised."
"I didn't promise," I say like this is really going to make a difference. "I said probably."
Silence. Yep, let the groveling begin.
"Look this sucks, I know. I'm sorry. We'll have to do this another time."
I provide more details - we're hosting Thanksgiving this year; there's going to be a houseful of guests, but it's not having any effect.
"Can't your family get along without you for a day?"
"Apparently not."
I'm sensing that there's something bigger here at stake, but can't figure it out. And part of me doesn't want to bother. I've already apologized once, and I can't change my parents' minds, so what more can I do? Sneak my father's car out of the garage like I'm a character in a John Hughes' film and drive into the city? That's ridiculous.
"It's your mother, isn't it? She doesn't want you to see me, right?"
"No...none of this is aimed at you. Can you just leave my mother out of this?" (I would rather have a root canal than discuss Mother with Amy. Literally. Without anesthesia.)
But she doesn't listen; she keeps going.
'She's controlling and manipulative. She..."
I want to strangle Amy at this point. Figuratively speaking, that is.
I don't wait for her to finish.
"Then you two have a lot in common."
Silence. I can't believe I said that out loud. It's been kind of bubbling around in my head for awhile, but I've always managed to keep that to myself. Until now. Now I've really crossed the line and there's no going back. She's glaring daggers - Don't you walk away from me - but I shrug and I do. It's a fatal mistake, but I won't find that out for another week.
Fast forward a week later to when my mother arrives at the headmaster's office to discuss the "stalking" allegations, although it was phrased a little more diplomatically. I can tell that he's wondering where Mr. Collings is. I, too, am hoping she will tell us what happened to Mr. Collings, but she just apologizes without providing any explanation.
When I force myself to stop wondering, and tune back in, he's saying something about how "we" take allegations like Miss Elliott's very seriously. Which I don't doubt this for a second. Also that whatever Amy said or did concerning me was an Oscar-worthy performance. (After all, I've had a front row seat to many of hers for the past year.) If the writing thing doesn't pan out, she'll always have a secure fallback as a professional actress.
"Of course, but I didn't raise my son - any of my other sons - to treat women this way. Besides, my son was home the entire time. With his family. And there were various relatives and other guests - that's why we wouldn't let him see Amy then in the first place."
True. Also true that her three other sons, whatever rules they broke, were smart enough not to get caught.
"Besides, this is a girl who already has a habit of making rather serious allegations against her fellow students. She and my son had a disagreement before break, and she's doing this to get back at him."
I want to sink deeper into the chair and disappear. I shouldn't be surprised she's bringing this up, but I can't help wondering if it doesn't make her sound a little callous. After all, you look at a girl as pretty and wholesome as "Amazing" Amy, and you can't picture her doing anything so petty and cruel.
He remembers then that I'm in the room and turns to study me. I wonder what he's thinking, probably something like absent father, overbearing mother, no wonder the boy's a basket base, but at this point, if pity works, I'll take it.
"Is this true?" he asks me.
"Sort of. No, yes. We had an argument about what to do over break. That was the last time I saw her. I didn't stalk anybody."
"You see. He was home the entire time. Besides, there's no way our son could have snuck off without our realizing it."
My mother then points out that she's also familiar with the school rules, and she knows that boys aren't allowed to wander freely in and out of the girls' dorm. As she makes the case for the impossibility of my being in two places in once, I mentally cross my fingers. I'm not the angel she thinks I am, but I haven't done anything wrong. This time.
For whatever reasons - most likely, he knows he isn't getting out of there without at least admitting the possibility that I'm innocent, he lets me off by suggesting that I give Amy some "space," and I agree. In that moment, it dawns on me that I'm not just mortified and depressed and betrayed, I'm also angry, and that it really is better that I stay far, far away from Amy because if I do go near her, I'll just say more things I'll regret. Which would probably make what I said to her last seem like a compliment.
Once outside, I blurt out the obvious question.
"Your father doesn't know - I didn't think it was necessary," is what I get in reply.
Growing up, periodically I would sense that there was something, well, a little off, in the way my family did things, but seldom did I have such direct evidence, and I made the most of it.
"I'm about to be expelled, and you haven't told him? What, he thinks you're here for a social call?"
"I don't appreciate your tone." She sighs, and I think that the only way this could get any more embarrassing would be if we had an audience - but fortunately, no one's around, it's just us.
"Do you want me to tell your father? It's up to you."
Briefly, I wonder would happen - but it's a complete mystery. Does he really under the illusion that he has four sons who never misbehave, or does he just not care enough to investigate?
I shake my head like a coward. No.
"And you're not going to be expelled. In just a few months, you'll be graduating, you'll be going to college, and you won't have to deal with this girl ever again."
(Why do adults always think that bringing up the future is a comforting thing. Because it's not - or is that just me?)
"Just please, promise me you'll be extra careful to stay away from Amy. That girl is dangerous."
I promised. And though I was down for a long time - I just couldn't accept fully that something that had meant so much to me meant apparently nothing to Amy, I eventually recovered. But no, not my finest hour, not a period in my life I'm eager to revisit, though for the record, I was never suicidal. But if I've matured, surely Amy has, too. (From her letters, she appears to be a
If I "learned something" from that experience, it was that the opposite sex is fully of hidden landmines and must be handled very, very carefully.
Also that when you are in desperate need of help that you can't cherry pick the help, you have to accept whatever you're given.
Two very valuable lessons, if you ask me.
The casino is crowded, noisy and strikes me as the perfect place for Amy to get noticed - but then I don't recognize her at first (she's dyed her hair and gained weight), so maybe that's not going to be an issue. We order drinks, and she starts telling me a long, convoluted story about Nick, the treasure hunt, the cabin in the Ozarks where she's been hiding out, getting robbed, her trust fund, etc. - and although I don't quite get everything, I get the gist - that she's broke and needs immediate help. So I offer her various things - money, legal counsel (even Nick has lawyered up by this point), whatever, but finally realize that what she really needs at the moment is a place to stay. So I persuade her to come back to the lake house where she can stay and recover until she's ready to come forward with her story. (At least, that was originally the plan.
Once there (I'm probably a little drunk at this point) I go around the house showing off each and every last feature like the world's most annoying bellhop. Forget sarcasm, when I'm really stressed, I tend to babble. At one point, I even suggest that we should take a trip abroad because at the time, it makes perfect sense and of course, we're both going to be able to leave the country without any hassle. Later, however, once sober, I realize that this is a lovely idea, but we really need to be practical.
Of course, what I should have done was driven her directly to a hospital or the police station. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
But I didn't.