_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

and I’m not sure that I like her anymore. I finish my drink as quickly as I
can and open another one.
I get off at Witney. I’m part of the Friday-evening commuter throng,
just another wage slave amongst the hot, tired masses, looking forward
to getting home and sitting outside with a cold beer, dinner with the kids,
an early night. It might just be the gin, but it feels indescribably good to
be swept along with the crowd, everyone phone-checking, fishing in
pockets for rail passes. I’m taken back, way back to the first summer we
lived on Blenheim Road, when I used to rush home from work every
night, desperate to get down the steps and out of the station, half running
down the street. Tom would be working from home and I’d barely be
through the door before he was taking my clothes off. I find myself
smiling about it even now, the anticipation of it: heat rising to my cheeks
as I skipped down the road, biting my lip to stop myself from grinning,
my breath quickening, thinking of him and knowing he’d be counting the
minutes until I got home, too.
My head is so full of those days that I forget to worry about Tom and
Anna, the police and the photographers, and before I know it I’m at
Scott’s door, ringing the doorbell, and the door is opening and I’m
feeling excited, although I shouldn’t be, but I don’t feel guilty about it,
because Megan isn’t what I thought she was anyway. She wasn’t that
beautiful, carefree girl out on the terrace. She wasn’t a loving wife. She
wasn’t even a good person. She was a liar, a cheat.
She was a killer.