_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

elbows on knees, head hanging down. “She wasn’t who I thought she
was,” he says. “I have no idea who she was.”
I wring the cloth out over the sink and run cold water over my hands.
My handbag is a couple of feet away, in the corner of the room. I make a
move towards it, but Scott looks up at me, so I stop. I stand there, my
back to the counter, my hands gripping the edge for stability. For
comfort.
“Detective Riley told me,” he says. “She was asking me about you.
Whether I was in a relationship with you.” He laughs. “A relationship
with you! Jesus. I asked her, ‘Have you seen what my wife looked like?
Standards haven’t fallen that fast.’” My face is hot, there is cold sweat
under my armpits and at the base of my spine. “Apparently Anna’s been
complaining about you. She’s seen you hanging around. So that’s how it
all came out. I said, ‘We’re not in a relationship, she’s just an old friend
of Megan’s, she’s helping me out.’” He laughs again, low and mirthless.
“She said, ‘She doesn’t know Megan. She’s just a sad little liar with no
life.’” The smile faded from his face. “You’re all liars. Every last one of
you.”
My phone beeps. I take a step towards the bag, but Scott gets there
before me.
“Hang on a minute,” he says, picking it up. “We’re not finished yet.”
He tips the contents of my handbag onto the table: phone, purse, keys,
lipstick, Tampax, credit card receipts. “I want to know exactly how much
of what you told me was total bullshit.” Idly, he picks up the phone and
looks at the screen. He raises his eyes to mine and they are suddenly
cold. He reads aloud: “This is to confirm your appointment with Dr.
Abdic at four thirty P.M. on Monday, nineteen August. If you are unable
to make this appointment, please be advised that we require twenty-four
hours’ notice.”
“Scott—”
“What the hell is going on?” he asks, his voice little more than a rasp.
“What have you been doing? What have you been saying to him?”
“I haven’t been saying anything . . .” He’s dropped the phone on the
table and is coming towards me, his hands balled into fists. I’m backing
away into the corner of the room, pressing myself between the wall and
the glass door. “I was trying to find out . . . I was trying to help.” He
raises his hand and I cringe, ducking my head, waiting for the pain, and
in that moment I know that I’ve done this before, felt this before, but I
can’t remember when and I don’t have time to think about it now,
because although he hasn’t hit me, he’s placed his hands on my