_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

voice of a busy, confident man with a beautiful wife at home. After a few
minutes, I phoned again. The phone was answered, but no one spoke.
“Hello?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Rachel,” I said. “Rachel Watson.”
“Oh.” There was noise in the background, voices, a woman. His
mother, perhaps.
“You . . . I missed your call,” I said.
“No . . . no. Did I call you? Oh. By mistake.” He sounded flustered.
“No, just put it there,” he said, and it took me a moment to realize he
wasn’t talking to me.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Yes.” His tone was flat and even.
“So sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you . . . did you need to talk to me?”
“No, I must have rung you by mistake,” he said, with more conviction
this time.
“Oh.” I could tell he was keen to get off the phone. I knew I should
leave him to his family, his grief. I knew that I should, but I didn’t. “Do
you know Anna?” I asked him. “Anna Watson?”
“Who? You mean your ex’s missus?”
“Yes.”
“No. I mean not really. Megan . . . Megan did a bit of babysitting for
her, last year. Why do you ask?”
I don’t know why I ask. I don’t know. “Can we meet?” I asked him. “I
wanted to talk to you about something.”
“About what?” He sounded annoyed. “It’s really not a great time.”
Stung by his sarcasm, I was ready to hang up when he said, “I’ve got
a house full of people here. Tomorrow? Come by the house tomorrow
afternoon.”
EVENING
He’s cut himself shaving: there’s blood on his cheek and on his collar.
His hair is damp and he smells of soap and aftershave. He nods at me
and stands aside, gesturing for me to the enter the house, but he doesn’t
say anything. The house is dark, stuffy, the blinds in the living room
closed, the curtains drawn across the French doors leading to the garden.
There are Tupperware containers on the kitchen counters.