_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

“Everyone brings food,” Scott says. He gestures at me to sit down at
the table, but he remains standing, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
“You wanted to tell me something?” He is a man on autopilot, he doesn’t
look me in the eye. He looks defeated.
“I wanted to ask you about Anna Watson, about whether . . . I don’t
know. What was her relationship with Megan like? Did they like each
other?”
He frowns, places his hands on the back of the chair in front of him.
“No. I mean . . . they didn’t dislike each other. They didn’t really know
each other very well. They didn’t have a relationship.” His shoulders
seem to sag lower still; he’s weary. “Why are you asking me about this?”
I have to come clean. “I saw her. I think I saw her, outside the
underpass by the station. I saw her that night . . . the night Megan went
missing.”
He shakes his head a little, trying to comprehend what I’m telling
him. “Sorry? You saw her. You were . . . Where were you?”
“I was here. I was on my way to see . . . to see Tom, my ex-husband,
but I—”
He squeezes his eyes shut, rubs his forehead. “Hang on a minute—
you were here—and you saw Anna Watson? And? I know Anna was
here. She lives a few doors away. She told the police that she went to the
station around seven but that she didn’t recall seeing Megan.” His hands
grip the chair, I can tell he is losing patience. “What exactly are you
saying?”
“I’d been drinking,” I say, my face reddening with a familiar shame.
“I don’t remember exactly, but I’ve just got this feeling—”
Scott holds his hand up. “Enough. I don’t want to hear this. You’ve
got some problem with your ex, your ex’s new wife, that’s obvious. It’s
got nothing to do with me, nothing to do with Megan, has it? Jesus,
aren’t you ashamed? Do you have any idea of what I’m going through
here? Do you know that the police had me in for questioning this
morning?” He’s pushing down so hard on the chair, I fear it’s going to
break, I’m steeling myself for the crack. “And you come here with this
bullshit. I’m sorry your life is a total fucking disaster, but believe me, it’s
a picnic compared to mine. So if you don’t mind . . .” He jerks his head
in the direction of the front door.
I get to my feet. I feel foolish, ridiculous. And I am ashamed. “I
wanted to help. I wanted—”
“You can’t, all right? You can’t help me. No one can help me. My
wife is dead, and the police think I killed her.” His voice is rising, spots