_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

The man was standing next to a colourful abstract painting: he was
older, bearded, short, stocky. It wasn’t the man I had seen, the man I had
identified to the police. “It’s not him,” I said. Scott stood at my side,
staring down at the pamphlet, before abruptly turning and marching out
of the room and up the stairs again. A few moments later, he came back
with a laptop and sat down at the kitchen table.
“I think,” he said, opening the machine and turning it on, “I think I
might . . .” He fell silent and I watched him, his face a picture of
concentration, the muscle in his jaw locked. “Megan was seeing a
therapist,” he told me. “His name is . . . Abdic. Kamal Abdic. He’s not
Asian, he’s from Serbia, or Bosnia, somewhere like that. He’s darkskinned,
though. He could pass for Indian from a distance.” He tapped
away at the computer. “There’s a website, I think. I’m sure there is. I
think there’s a picture . . .”
He spun the laptop round so that I could see the screen. I leaned
forward to get a closer look. “That’s him,” I said. “That’s definitely
him.”
Scott snapped the laptop shut. For a long time, he didn’t say anything.
He sat with his elbows on the table, his forehead resting on his fingertips,
his arms trembling.
“She was having anxiety attacks,” he said at last. “Trouble sleeping,
things like that. It started last year some time. I don’t remember when
exactly.” He talked without looking at me, as though he were talking to
himself, as though he’d forgotten I was there at all. “I was the one who
suggested she talk to someone. I was the one who encouraged her to go,
because I didn’t seem to be able to help her.” His voice cracked a little
then. “I couldn’t help her. And she told me that she’d had similar
problems in the past and that eventually they’d go away, but I made
her . . . I persuaded her to go to the doctor. That guy was recommended
to her.” He gave a little cough to clear his throat. “The therapy seemed to
be helping. She was happier.” He gave a short, sad laugh. “Now I know
why.”
I reached out my hand to give him a pat on the arm, a gesture of
comfort. Abruptly, he drew away and got to his feet. “You should go,” he
said brusquely. “My mother will be here soon—she won’t leave me
alone for more than an hour or two.” At the door, just as I was leaving,
he caught hold of my arm.
“Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asked.
For a moment, I thought about saying, You might have done. You
might have seen me at the police station, or here on the street. I was here