_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

they were writing about her, the implication that she got what was
coming to her; angry with the police for botching the whole thing, for
failing her, failing him. We sat in the kitchen drinking beers and I
listened to him talk, and when the beers were finished we sat outside on
the patio and he stopped being angry then. We drank and watched the
trains go by and talked about nothing: television and work and where he
went to school, just like normal people. I forgot to feel what I was
supposed to be feeling, we both did, because I can remember now. I can
remember him smiling at me, touching my hair.
It hits me like a wave, I can feel blood rushing to my face. I remember
admitting it to myself. Thinking the thought and not dismissing it,
embracing it. I wanted it. I wanted to be with Jason. I wanted to feel
what Jess felt when she sat out there with him, drinking wine in the
evening. I forgot what I was supposed to be feeling. I ignored the fact
that at the very best, Jess is nothing but a figment of my imagination, and
at the worst, Jess is not nothing, she is Megan—she is dead, a body
battered and left to rot. Worse than that: I didn’t forget. I didn’t care. I
didn’t care because I’ve started to believe what they’re saying about her.
Did I, for just the briefest of moments, think she got what was coming to
her, too?
Scott comes out of the bathroom. He’s taken a shower, washed me off
his skin. He looks better for it, but he won’t look me in the eye when he
asks if I’d like a coffee. This isn’t what I wanted: none of this is right. I
don’t want to do this. I don’t want to lose control again.
I dress quickly and go into the bathroom, splash cold water on my
face. My mascara’s run, smudged at the corners of my eyes, and my lips
are dark. Bitten. My face and neck are red where his stubble has grazed
my skin. I have a quick flashback to the night before, his hands on me,
and my stomach flips. Feeling dizzy, I sit down on the edge of the
bathtub. The bathroom is grubbier than the rest of the house: grime
around the sink, toothpaste smeared on the mirror. A mug, with just one
toothbrush in it. There’s no perfume, no moisturizer, no makeup. I
wonder if she took it when she left, or whether he’s thrown it all away.
Back in the bedroom, I look around for evidence of her—a robe on
the back of the door, a hairbrush on the chest of drawers, a pot of lip
balm, a pair of earrings—but there’s nothing. I cross the bedroom to the
wardrobe and am about to open it, my hand resting on the handle, when I
hear him call out, “There’s coffee here!” and I jump.
He hands me the mug without looking at my face, then turns away
and stands with his back to me, his gaze fixed on the tracks or something