_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

evidence, should I need it. I called Detective Riley and left a message
saying that Rachel had been round again. She still hasn’t rung back.
I should have mentioned the note to Tom, I know I should have, but I
didn’t want him to get annoyed with me about talking to the police, so I
just shoved it in that drawer and hoped that she’d forget about it. She
didn’t, of course. She rang him tonight. He was fuming when he got off
the phone with her.
“What the fuck is all this about a note?” he snapped.
I told him I’d thrown it away. “I didn’t realize that you’d want to read
it,” I said. “I thought you wanted her out of our lives as much as I do.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point and you know it. Of course I
want Rachel gone. What I don’t want is for you to start listening to my
phone calls and throwing away my mail. You’re . . .” He sighed.
“I’m what?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . . it’s the sort of thing she used to do.”
It was a punch in the gut, a low blow. Ridiculously, I burst into tears
and ran upstairs to the bathroom. I waited for him to come up to soothe
me, to kiss and make up like he usually does, but after about half an hour
he called out to me, “I’m going to the gym for a couple of hours,” and
before I could reply I heard the front door slam.
And now I find myself behaving exactly like she used to: polishing
off the half bottle of red left over from dinner last night and snooping
around on his computer. It’s easier to understand her behaviour when you
feel like I feel right now. There’s nothing so painful, so corrosive, as
suspicion.
I cracked the laptop password eventually: it’s Blenheim. As innocuous
and boring as that—the name of the road we live on. I’ve found no
incriminating emails, no sordid pictures or passionate letters. I spend half
an hour reading through work emails so mind-numbing that they dull
even the pain of jealousy, then I shut down the laptop and put it away.
I’m feeling really quite jolly, thanks to the wine and the tedious contents
of Tom’s computer. I’ve reassured myself I was just being silly.
I go upstairs to brush my teeth—I don’t want him to know that I’ve
been at the wine again—and then I decide that I’ll strip the bed and put
on fresh sheets, I’ll spray a bit of Acqua di Parma on the pillows and put
on that black silk teddy he got me for my birthday last year, and when he
comes back, I’ll make it up to him.
As I’m pulling the sheets off the mattress I almost trip over a black
bag shoved under the bed: his gym bag. He’s forgotten his gym bag. He’s
been gone an hour, and he hasn’t been back for it. My stomach flips.