_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

My hand is against his chest and I’m pushing as hard as I can, but I can’t
breathe and he’s so much stronger than I am. His forearm presses against
my windpipe, I can feel the blood pulsing at my temples, my eyes
blurring. I try to cry out, my back to the wall. I snatch a handful of his T-
shirt and he lets go. He turns away from me and I slide down the wall
onto the kitchen floor.
I cough and spit, tears running down my face. He’s standing a few feet
from me, and when he turns back to me my hand instinctively goes to
my throat to protect it. I see the shame on his face and want to tell him
that it’s OK. I’m OK. I open my mouth but the words won’t come, just
more coughing. The pain is unbelievable. He’s saying something to me
but I can’t hear, it’s as though we’re under water, the sound muffled,
reaching me in blurry waves. I can’t make anything out.
I think he’s saying that he’s sorry.
I haul myself to my feet, push past him and run up the stairs, then
slam the bedroom door behind me and lock it. I sit down on the bed and
wait, listening for him, but he doesn’t come. I get to my feet and grab my
overnight bag from under the bed, go over to the chest to grab some
clothes and catch sight of myself in the mirror. I bring my hand up to my
face: it looks startlingly white against my reddened skin, my purple lips,
my bloodshot eyes.
Part of me is shocked, because he’s never laid a hand on me like that
before. But there’s another part of me that expected this. Somewhere
inside I always knew that this was a possibility, that this was where we
were headed. Where I was leading him. Slowly, I start pulling things out
of the drawers—underwear, a couple of T-shirts; I stuff them into the
bag.
I haven’t even told him anything yet. I’d just started. I wanted to tell
him about the bad stuff first, before we got to the good news. I couldn’t
tell him about the baby and then say that there was a possibility it wasn’t
his. That would be too cruel.
We were outside on the patio. He was talking about work and he
caught me not-quite-listening.
“Am I boring you?” he asked.
“No. Well, maybe a bit.” He didn’t laugh. “No, I’m just distracted.
Because there’s something I need to tell you. There are a few things I
need to tell you, actually, some of which you’re not going to like, but
some—”
“What am I not going to like?”