_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

this morning a police spokesman said: “We can confirm
that we have arrested a man in connection with Megan’s
disappearance. He has not yet been charged with an
offence. The search for Megan continues, and we are
searching an address that we believe may be a crime
scene.”
We are passing the house now; for once, the train has not stopped at
the signal. I whip my head around, but I’m too late. It’s gone. My hands
are trembling as I hand the iPad back to its owner. He shakes his head
sadly. “I’m very sorry,” he says.
“She isn’t dead,” I say. My voice is a croak and even I don’t believe
me. Tears are stinging the back of my eyes. I was in his house. I was
there. I sat across the table from him, I looked into his eyes, I felt
something. I think about those huge hands and about how, if he could
crush me, he could destroy her—tiny, fragile Megan.
The brakes screech as we approach Witney station and I leap to my
feet.
“I have to go,” I tell the man next to me, who looks a little surprised
but nods sagely.
“Good luck,” he says.
I run along the platform and down the stairs. I’m going against the
flow of people, and am almost at the bottom of the stairs when I stumble
and a man says, “Watch it!” I don’t glance up at him because I’m looking
at the edge of the concrete step, the second to last one. There’s a smear
of blood on it. I wonder how long it’s been there. Could it be a week old?
Could it be my blood? Hers? Is her blood in the house, I wonder, is that
why they’ve arrested him? I try to picture the kitchen, the living room.
The smell: very clean, antiseptic. Was that bleach? I don’t know, I can’t
remember now, all I can remember clearly is the sweat on his back and
the beer on his breath.
I run past the underpass, stumbling at the corner of Blenheim Road.
I’m holding my breath as I hurry along the pavement, head down, too
afraid to look up, but when I do there’s nothing to see. There are no vans
parked outside Scott’s house, no police cars. Could they have finished
searching the house already? If they had found something they would
still be there, surely; it must take hours, going over everything,
processing the evidence. I quicken my pace. When I get to his house I
stop, take a deep breath. The curtains are drawn, upstairs and down. The
curtains in the neighbour’s window twitch. I’m being watched. I step