_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

curtains drawn. There is nothing to see but rain, sheets of it, and muddy
water pooling at the bottom of the garden.
On a whim, I get off the train at Witney. Tom couldn’t help me, but
perhaps the other man could—the red-haired man. I wait for the
disembarking passengers to disappear down the steps and then I sit on
the only covered bench on the platform. I might get lucky. I might see
him getting onto the train. I could follow him, I could talk to him. It’s the
only thing I have left, my last roll of the dice. If this doesn’t work, I have
to let it go. I just have to let it go.
Half an hour goes by. Every time I hear footsteps on the steps, my
heart rate goes up. Every time I hear the clacking of high heels, I am
seized with trepidation. If Anna sees me here, I could be in trouble. Tom
warned me. He’s persuaded her not to get the police involved, but if I
carry on . . .
Quarter past nine. Unless he starts work very late, I’ve missed him.
It’s raining harder now, and I can’t face another aimless day in London.
The only money I have is a tenner I borrowed from Cathy, and I need to
make that last until I’ve summoned up the courage to ask my mother for
a loan. I walk down the steps, intending to cross underneath to the
opposite platform and go back to Ashbury, when suddenly I spot Scott
hurrying out of the newsagent opposite the station entrance, his coat
pulled up around his face.
I run after him and catch him at the corner, right opposite the
underpass. I grab his arm and he wheels round, startled.
“Please,” I say, “can I talk to you?”
“Jesus Christ,” he snarls at me. “What the fuck do you want?”
I back away from him, holding my hands up. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m
sorry. I just wanted to apologize, to explain . . .”
The downpour has become a deluge. We are the only people on the
street, both of us soaked to the skin. Scott starts to laugh. He throws his
hands up in the air and roars with laughter. “Come to the house,” he says.
“We’re going to drown out here.”
Scott goes upstairs to fetch me a towel while the kettle boils. The
house is less tidy than it was a week ago, the disinfectant smell displaced
by something earthier. A pile of newspapers sits in the corner of the
living room; there are dirty mugs on the coffee table and the
mantelpiece.
Scott appears at my side, proffering the towel. “It’s a tip, I know. My
mother was driving me insane, cleaning, tidying up after me all the time.
We had a bit of a row. She hasn’t been round for a few days.” His mobile