_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

I should have known then that it wasn’t the time, his mood was off.
He was immediately suspicious, searching my face for clues. I should
have known then that this was all a terrible idea. I suppose I did, but it
was too late to go back then. And in any case, I had made my decision.
To do the right thing.
I sat down next to him on the edge of the paving and slipped my hand
into his.
“What aren’t I going to like?” he asked again, but he didn’t let go of
my hand.
I told him I loved him and I felt every muscle in his body tense, as if
he knew what was coming and was bracing himself for it. You do, don’t
you, when someone tells you they love you like that. I love you, I do,
but . . . But.
I told him that I’d made some mistakes and he let go of my hand. He
got to his feet and walked a few yards in the direction of the track before
turning to look at me. “What sort of mistakes?” he asked. His voice was
even, but I could hear that it was a strain to keep it so.
“Come and sit with me,” I said. “Please?”
He shook his head. “What sort of mistakes, Megan?” Louder that
time.
“There was . . . it’s finished now, but there was . . . someone else.” I
kept my eyes lowered, I couldn’t look at him.
He spat something under his breath, but I couldn’t hear it. I looked up
then, but he’d turned away and was facing the track again, his hands up
at his temples. I got to my feet and went to him, stood behind him and
placed my hands on his hips, but he leaped away from me. He turned to
go into the house and, without looking at me, spat, “Don’t touch me, you
little whore.”
I should have let him go then, given him time to get his head around
it, but I couldn’t. I wanted to get over the bad stuff so that I could get to
the good, so I followed him into the house.
“Scott, please, just listen, it’s not as awful as you think. It’s over now.
It’s completely over, please listen, please—”
He grabbed the photograph of the two of us that he loves—the one I
had framed as a gift for our second wedding anniversary—and threw it
as hard as he could at my head. As it smashed against the wall behind
me, he lunged, grabbing me by the tops of my arms and wrestling me
across the room, throwing me against the opposite wall. My head rocked
back, my skull hitting plaster. Then he leaned in, his forearm across my