_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

time we had sex. Number thirty-four, for Cranham Road; number
twenty-three, this house. I try to think outside the box—most men use
football teams as passwords, I think, but Tom isn’t into football; he quite
likes cricket, so I try Boycott and Botham and Ashes. I don’t know
names of any of the recent ones. I drain my glass and pour another half.
I’m actually rather enjoying myself, trying to solve the puzzle. I think of
bands he likes, films he enjoys, actresses he fancies. I type password; I
type 1234.
There’s an awful screeching outside as the London train stops at the
signal, like nails on a chalkboard. I clench my teeth and take another
long swig of wine, and as I do, I notice the time—Jesus, it’s almost seven
and Evie’s still sleeping and he’ll be home in a minute, and I’m literally
thinking that he’ll be home in a minute when I hear the rattle of the key
in the door and my heart stops.
I snap the laptop shut and jump to my feet, knocking my chair over
with a clatter. Evie wakes and starts to cry. I put the computer back on
the table before he gets into the room, but he knows something’s up and
he just stares at me and says, “What’s going on?” I tell him, “Nothing,
nothing, I knocked over a chair by mistake.” He picks Evie up out of her
pram to give her a cuddle, and I catch sight of myself in the hallway
mirror, my face pale and my lips stained dark red with wine.