"Amy was gone."
"Amy, you home?" I ran straight upstairs. No Amy. The ironing board was set up, the iron still on, a dress waiting to be pressed. "Amy!"
As I ran back downstairs, I could see Carl still framed in the open doorway, hands on hips, watching. 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.
"Amy!"
I began running, bellowing her name. Through the kitchen, where a teakettle was burining, 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. I peeked over the side to see if she was in our rowboat, where I had found her one day, tethered to the dock, rocking in the water, her face to the sun, eyes closed, and as I’d peered down into the dazzling reflections of the river, at her beautiful, still face, she’d suddenly opened her blue eyes and said nothing to me, and I’d said nothing back and gone into the house alone.
"Amy!"
She wasn’t on the water, she wasn’t in the house. Amy was not there. Amy was gone.
From Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, paperback edition, page 23-24