_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

that Fernando Torres will be out for up to four weeks with a hamstring
strain and that the suspect in the Megan Hipwell disappearance has been
released without charge.
I put my glass down and grab the remote, clicking the volume button
up, up, up. This can’t be right. The war report continues, it goes on and
on, my blood pressure rising with it, but eventually it ends and they go
back to the studio and the newsreader says: “Kamal Abdic, the man
arrested yesterday in connection with the disappearance of Megan
Hipwell, has been released without charge. Abdic, who was Mrs.
Hipwell’s therapist, was detained yesterday, but was released this
morning because police say there is insufficient evidence to charge him.”
I don’t hear what she says after that. I just sit there, my eyes blurring
over, a wash of noise in my ears, thinking, They had him. They had him
and they let him go.
• • •
Upstairs, later. I’ve had too much to drink, I can’t see the computer
screen properly, everything doubles, trebles. I can read if I hold my hand
over one eye. It gives me a headache. Cathy is home, she called out to
me and I told her I was in bed, unwell. She knows that I’m drinking.
My belly is awash with alcohol. I feel sick. I can’t think straight.
Shouldn’t have started drinking so early. Shouldn’t have started drinking
at all. I phoned Scott’s number an hour ago, again a few minutes ago.
Shouldn’t have done that, either. I just want to know, what lies has
Kamal told them? What lies have they been fool enough to believe? The
police have messed the whole thing up. Idiots. That Riley woman, her
fault. I’m sure of it.
The newspapers haven’t helped. There was no domestic violence
conviction, they’re saying now. That was a mistake. They’re making him
look like the victim.
Don’t want to drink anymore. I know that I should pour the rest down
the sink, because otherwise it’ll be there in the morning and I’ll get up
and drink it straightaway, and once I’ve started I’ll want to go on. I
should pour it down the sink, but I know I’m not going to. Something to
look forward to in the morning.
It’s dark, and I can hear someone calling her name. A voice, low at
first, but then louder. Angry, desperate, calling Megan’s name. It’s Scott
—he’s unhappy with her. He calls her again and again. It’s a dream, I