_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

RACHEL
• • •
SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 2013
MORNING
I wake early. I can hear the recycling van trundling up the street and the
soft patter of rain against the window. The blinds are half up—we forgot
to close them last night. I smile to myself. I can feel him behind me,
warm and sleepy, hard. I wriggle my hips, pressing against him a little
closer. It won’t take long for him to stir, to grab hold of me, roll me over.
“Rachel,” his voice says, “don’t.” I go cold. I’m not at home, this isn’t
home. This is all wrong.
I roll over. Scott is sitting up now. He swings his legs over the side of
the bed, his back to me. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and try to
remember, but it’s all too hazy. When I open my eyes I can think straight
because this room is the one I’ve woken up in a thousand times or more:
this is where the bed is, this is the exact aspect—if I sit up now I will be
able to see the tops of the oak trees on the opposite side of the street;
over there, on the left, is the en suite bathroom, and to the right are the
built-in wardrobes. It’s exactly the same as the room I shared with Tom.
“Rachel,” he says again, and I reach out to touch his back, but he
stands quickly and turns to face me. He looks hollowed out, like the first
time I saw him up close, in the police station—as though someone has
scraped away his insides, leaving a shell. This is like the room I shared
with Tom, but it is the one he shared with Megan. This room, this bed.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This was wrong.”
“Yes, it was,” he says, his eyes not meeting mine. He goes into the
bathroom and shuts the door.
I lie back and close my eyes and feel myself sink into dread, that
awful gnawing in my gut. What have I done? I remember him talking a
lot when I first arrived, a rush of words. He was angry—angry with his
mother, who never liked Megan; angry with the newspapers for what