_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

I take a deep breath. I can feel my face reddening. No matter how
many times you have to admit this, it’s always embarrassing, it always
makes you cringe. “I was very drunk and I don’t remember. There are
some things I need to sort out. I just want to know if you saw anything, if
you saw me talking to anyone else, anything like that . . .” I’m staring
down at the table, I can’t meet his eye.
He nudges my foot with his. “It’s all right, you didn’t do anything
bad.” I look up and he’s smiling. “I was pissed, too. We had a bit of a
chat on the train, I can’t remember what about. Then we both got off
here, at Witney, and you were a bit unsteady on your feet. You slipped on
the steps. You remember? I helped you up and you were all embarrassed,
blushing like you are now.” He laughs. “We walked out together, and I
asked you if you wanted to go to the pub. But you said you had to go and
meet your husband.”
“That’s it?”
“No. Do you really not remember? It was a while later—I don’t know,
half an hour, maybe? I’d been to the Crown, but a mate rang and said he
was drinking in a bar over on the other side of the railway track, so I was
heading down to the underpass. You’d fallen over. You were in a bit of a
mess then. You’d cut yourself. I was a bit worried, I said I’d see you
home if you wanted, but you wouldn’t hear of it. You were . . . well, you
were very upset. I think there’d been a row with your bloke. He was
heading off down the street, and I said I’d go after him if you wanted me
to, but you said not to. He drove off somewhere after that. He was . . .
er . . . he was with someone.”
“A woman?”
He nods, ducks his head a bit. “Yeah, they got into a car together. I
assumed that was what the argument was about.”
“And then?”
“Then you walked off. You seemed a little . . . confused or something,
and you walked off. You kept saying you didn’t need any help. As I said,
I was a bit wasted myself, so I just left it. I went down through the
underpass and met my mate in the pub. That was it.”
Climbing the stairs to the apartment, I feel sure that I can see shadows
above me, hear footsteps ahead. Someone waiting on the landing above.
There’s no one there, of course, and the flat is empty, too: it feels
untouched, it smells empty, but that doesn’t stop me checking every
room—under my bed and under Cathy’s, in the wardrobes and the closet
in the kitchen that couldn’t conceal a child.