_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

don’t know what I’m doing. I made an appointment yesterday morning
to see Dr. Kamal Abdic. I rang his surgery and spoke to a receptionist,
asked for him by name. I might have been imagining it, but I thought she
sounded surprised. She said he could see me today at four thirty. So
soon? My heart battering my ribs, my mouth dry, I said that would be
fine. The session costs £75. That £300 from my mother is not going to
last very long.
Ever since I made the appointment, I haven’t been able to think of
anything else. I’m afraid, but I’m excited, too. I can’t deny that there’s a
part of me that finds the idea of meeting Kamal thrilling. Because all this
started with him: a glimpse of him and my life changed course, veered
off the tracks. The moment I saw him kiss Megan, everything changed.
And I need to see him. I need to do something, because the police are
only interested in Scott. They had him in for questioning again yesterday.
They won’t confirm it, of course, but there’s footage on the Internet:
Scott, walking into the police station, his mother at his side. His tie was
too tight, he looked strangled.
Everyone speculates. The newspapers say that the police are being
more circumspect, that they cannot afford to make another hasty arrest.
There is talk of a botched investigation, suggestions that a change in
personnel may be required. On the Internet, the talk about Scott is
horrible, the theories wild, disgusting. There are screen grabs of him
giving his first tearful appeal for Megan’s return, and next to them are
pictures of killers who had also appeared on television, sobbing,
seemingly distraught at the fate of their loved ones. It’s horrific,
inhuman. I can only pray that he never looks at this stuff. It would break
his heart.
So, stupid and reckless I may be, but I am going to see Kamal Abdic,
because unlike all the speculators, I have seen Scott. I’ve been close
enough to touch him, I know what he is, and he isn’t a murderer.
EVENING
My legs are still trembling as I climb the steps to Corly station. I’ve been
shaking like this for hours, it must be the adrenaline, my heart just won’t
slow down. The train is packed—no chance of a seat here, it’s not like
getting on at Euston, so I have to stand, midway through a carriage. It’s
like a sweatbox. I’m trying to breathe slowly, my eyes cast down to my
feet. I’m just trying to get a handle on what I’m feeling.
Exultation, fear, confusion and guilt. Mostly guilt.