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There are lots of ideas that you can use if you ever want to download Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl. How did Gillian Flynn's husband react when he first read the book 'Gone Girl'? . File formats: ePub, PDF, Kindle, Audiobook, mobi, ZIP. Click here if your download doesn"t start automatically Download and Read Free Online Cry Baby - Scharfe Schnitte Gillian Flynn read, cheap books, good books, online books, books online, book reviews epub, read books online, books. Jul 15, Likes, shares and comments are highly appreciated! Gone Girl II Dark Places II Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn 3 Novels in 1 File.

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Like a child, I picture opening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it , trying to catch and pin down her thoughts. What are I go home and cry for a while. . Gone Girl: A Novel by Gillian Flynn Pdf, epub, mobi Free Download. Read Books The Book of Negroes [PDF, ePub] by Lawrence Hill Complete Read you will love reading, even if they make you cry. books that will make you cry The Husband's Secret was recommended to me and The Snow Child seems like a Great books recommended by Gillian Flynn, including the gripping thriller . P.S. I Still Love You - Jenny - Google Drive Jenny Han Books · Jenny Han BooksI Still Love See more. Gone Girl Gillian Flynn( : Free Download & .. the time I admitted I was crying to the DOCTOR!!!!! Nice See more. 20 Books for kids NOT ready for Harry Potter: what if your child isn'.

Not in United States? Choose your country's store to see books available for purchase. A canny young woman is struggling to survive by perpetrating various levels of mostly harmless fraud. A keen observer of human behavior, our unnamed narrator immediately diagnoses beautiful, rich Susan as an unhappy woman eager to give her lovely life a drama injection. The three are soon locked in a chilling battle to discover where the evil truly lurks and what, if anything, can be done to escape it.

Lost Girls. Angela Marsons. The Girl in the Woods. You're Not Safe. Mary Burton. Our Kind of Cruelty. Araminta Hall. The Sinner. Petra Hammesfahr. Where They Found Her. Kimberly McCreight. The Betrayal. Laura Elliot. Girl Waits with Gun. Amy Stewart. The Remedy for Love. Bill Roorbach. The Passenger. Lisa Lutz. The Girl on the Pier.

Paul Tomkins. Broken Promise. Ink and Bone. Lisa Unger. The Last Mrs. Liv Constantine. The Wife Between Us. Greer Hendricks. The Girl You Lost. Behind Closed Doors. Undermajordomo Minor. Patrick deWitt.

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I'm Thinking of Ending Things. Iain Reid. Kelley Armstrong. Eight Hundred Grapes. Laura Dave. What Remains of Me. Alison Gaylin. Mona Awad. Every Last Lie. A Banquet of Consequences. Elizabeth George. All the Missing Girls. Megan Miranda.

Anders de la Motte. Lily and the Octopus. Steven Rowley. The Mountain Story. Lori Lansens. The Sister. Louise Jensen. After Alice. Gregory Maguire. The Ultimatum. Dick Wolf. I'll Never Let You Go. Everybody Rise.

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Stephanie Clifford. Shopaholic to the Rescue. Sophie Kinsella. Silent Lies. Final Girls. Riley Sager. Sharp Objects. Gillian Flynn. Dark Places. Gone Girl. The Complete Gillian Flynn. George R. The Novels of Gillian Flynn. The Mystery Writers of America Cookbook.

Kate White. How to write a great review. The review must be at least 50 characters long. The title should be at least 4 characters long. Your display name should be at least 2 characters long. At Kobo, we try to ensure that published reviews do not contain rude or profane language, spoilers, or any of our reviewer's personal information. You submitted the following rating and review.

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Unavailable for purchase. Continue shopping Checkout Continue shopping. Chi ama i libri sceglie Kobo e inMondadori. Buy the eBook Price: Choose Store. Skip this list. Ratings and Book Reviews 8 star ratings 8 reviews. Overall rating 3. Yes No Thanks for your feedback! Report as inappropriate. I have been living under a rock. That is honestly the only explanation that I have. How else could someone that reads as much as I do somehow miss out on reading Gillian Flynn?

I mean I have heard of her and have had every intention of picking up one of her books. I think I even checked one out from the library at some point.

I just never got around to actually reading any books with her name stamped on the front. When I saw this story, I knew that I could find the time to read this short piece and finally sample this incredibly popular author's work. This short story does a lot of things really well.

The writing is really good. I mean really, really good. I picked up this book just to look at it and the next thing that I knew I had finished it. It is amazing how sometimes those kind of things just happen. It is short This is a big story filled with an intriguing plot, interesting characters, and passages that you will want to share with others.

This was the kind of story that I had no idea which direction it would go and every twist was a complete surprise. I was a little sad when I reached the last page because I wanted more. I read this story in hardcover and the presentation is cute. It was our five-year anniversary. I walked barefoot to the edge of the steps and stood listening, working my toes into the plush wall-towall carpet Amy detested on principle, as I tried to decide whether I was ready to join my wife.

Amy was in the kitchen, oblivious to my hesitation. She was humming something melancholy and familiar. I strained to make it out — a folk song? Suicide is painless. I went downstairs. I hovered in the doorway, watching my wife. Her yellow-butter hair was pulled up, the hank of ponytail swinging cheerful as a jumprope, and she was sucking distractedly on a burnt fingertip, humming around it.

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She hummed to herself because she was an unrivaled botcher of lyrics. When we were first dating, a Genesis song came on the radio: I knew I liked her then, really liked her, this girl with an explanation for everything.

Amy peered at the crepe sizzling in the pan and licked something off her wrist. She looked triumphant, wifely. If I took her in my arms, she would smell like berries and powdered sugar. I thought to myself: Okay, go. I was very late getting to work. My sister and I had done a foolish thing when we both moved back home. We had done what we always talked about doing. We opened a bar. We borrowed money from Amy to do this, eighty thousand dollars, which was once nothing to Amy but by then was almost everything.

I swore I would pay her back, with interest. I would not be a man who borrowed from his wife — I could feel my dad twisting his lips at the very idea. Well, there are all kinds of men , his most damning phrase, the second half left unsaid, and you are the wrong kind.

But truly, it was a practical decision, a smart business move. Amy and I both needed new careers; this would be mine. Like the McMansion I rented, the bar featured symbolically in my childhood memories — a place where only grown-ups go, and do whatever grown-ups do. The once plentiful herds of magazine writers would continue to be culled — by the Internet, by the recession, by the American public, who would rather watch TV or play video games or electronically inform friends that, like, rain sucks!

The world will always want a drink. Our bar is a corner bar with a haphazard, patchwork aesthetic. Its best feature is a massive Victorian backbar, dragon heads and angel faces emerging from the oak — an extravagant work of wood in these shitty plastic days. The remainder of the bar is, in fact, shitty, a showcase of the shabbiest design offerings.

And jovial: We named the bar The Bar. Yes, we thought we were being clever New Yorkers — that the name was a joke no one else would really get, not get like we did.

Not meta-get. We pictured the locals scrunching their noses: I pulled into the parking lot. I waited until a strike erupted from the bowling alley — thank you, thank you, friends — then stepped out of the car. I admired the surroundings, still not bored with the broken-in view: Still, it was where my mom grew up and where she raised me and Go, so it had some history.

Mine, at least. As I walked toward the bar across the concrete-and-weed parking lot, I looked straight down the road and saw the river. I could walk down the road and step right into the sucker, an easy three-foot drop, and be on my way to Tennessee.

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And so on. Moving apace with the river was a long single-file line of men, eyes aimed at their feet, shoulders tense, walking steadfastly nowhere. As I watched them, one suddenly looked up at me, his face in shadow, an oval blackness. I turned away. I felt an immediate, intense need to get inside. The sun was still an angry eye in the sky.

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My gut twisted, and I moved quicker. I needed a drink. Tra and la! I am smiling a big adopted-orphan smile as I write this. I am embarrassed at how happy I am, like some Technicolor comic of a teenage girl talking on the phone with my hair in a ponytail, the bubble above my head saying: I met a boy!

But I did. This is a technical, empirical truth. I met a boy, a great, gorgeous dude, a funny, cool-ass guy. But still. Now, I like a writer party, I like writers, I am the child of writers, I am a writer.

But really, I do think my quizzes alone qualify me on at least an honorary basis. At a party you find yourself surrounded by genuine talented writers, employed at high-profile, respected newspapers and magazines. When someone asks what you do for a living, you: Yeah, so suck it, snobdouche! I worry for a second that she wants to set us up: I am not interested in being set up. I need to be ambushed, caught unawares, like some sort of feral lovejackal.

But no, I realize, as Carmen gushes on about her friend: She likes him. We climb three flights of warped stairs and walk into a whoosh of body heat and writerness: Franz Ferdinand on the stereo: I nudge in, aiming my plastic cup in the center like a busker, get a clatter of ice cubes and a splash of vodka from a sweet-faced guy wearing a Space Invaders T-shirt.

It is a January party, definitely, everyone still glutted and sugar-pissed from the holidays, lazy and irritated simultaneously. A party where people drink too much and pick cleverly worded fights, blowing cigarette smoke out an open window even after the host asks them to go outside. I have lost Carmen to her host-beau — they are having an intense discussion in a corner of the kitchen, the two of them hunching their shoulders, their faces toward each other, the shape of a heart.

I think about eating to give myself something to do besides standing in the center of the room, smiling like the new kid in the lunchroom.

But almost everything is gone. Some potato-chip shards sit in the bottom of a giant Tupperware bowl. A supermarket deli tray full of hoary carrots and gnarled celery and a semeny dip sits untouched on a coffee table, cigarettes littered throughout like bonus vegetable sticks.

I am doing my thing, my impulse thing: What if I leap from the theater balcony right now? 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! My dating life seems to rotate around three types of men: 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.

I think: Then I catch myself. I bet dudes hate him: His name is Nick. I love it. It makes him seem nice, and regular, which he is. He makes a series of awful puns.

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. He has claimed me, placed a flag in me: 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. 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. I swung wide the door of my bar, slipped into the darkness, and took my first real deep breath of the day, took in the smell of cigarettes and beer, the spice of a dribbled bourbon, the tang of old popcorn.

There was only one customer in the bar, sitting by herself at the far, far end: 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: Things might not be great, but things would be okay. My twin, Go. We even have a dash of twin telepathy. 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.

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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. 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 give up. 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.

I never figured out the clues. 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. She stopped finally, gave me a face unmoved as I explained myself, one mental finger tamping down my exasperation: Amy always going overboard, me never, ever worthy of the effort. 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: My sister and I have never screwed or even thought of screwing. We just really like each other. Go was now pantomiming dick-slapping my wife.

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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: 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.