_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

there, and I wait.
I look at the call log. The last time I used this phone was April. A lot
of calls, all of them unanswered, in early April and late March. I called
and called and called, and he ignored me, he didn’t even respond to the
threats I made—I’d go to the house, I’d talk to his wife. I think he’ll
listen to me now, though. I’m going to make him listen to me now.
When we started all this, it was just a game. A distraction. I used to
see him from time to time. He’d pop by the gallery and smile and flirt,
and it was harmless—there were plenty of men who came by the gallery
and smiled and flirted. But then the gallery closed and I was here at
home all the time, bored and restless. I just needed something else,
something different. Then one day, when Scott was away, I bumped into
him in the street, we started talking and I invited him in for coffee. The
way he looked at me, I could see exactly what was going through his
mind, and so it just happened. And then it happened again, and I never
meant for it to go anywhere, I didn’t want it to go anywhere. I just
enjoyed feeling wanted; I liked the feeling of control. It was as simple
and stupid as that. I didn’t want him to leave his wife; I just wanted him
to want to leave her. To want me that much.
I don’t remember when I started believing that it could be more, that
we should be more, that we were right for each other. But the moment I
did, I could feel him start to pull away. He stopped texting, stopped
answering my calls, and I’ve never felt rejection like that before, never. I
hated it. So then it became something else: an obsession. I can see that
now. In the end I really thought I could just walk away from it, a little
bruised, but no real harm done. But it’s not that simple any longer.
Scott is still outside the door. I can’t hear him, but I can feel him. I go
into the bathroom and dial the number again. I get voice mail again, so I
hang up and dial again, and again. I whisper a message. “Pick up the
phone, or I’m coming round there. I mean it this time. I have to talk to
you. You can’t just ignore me.”
I stand in the bathroom for a while, the phone on the edge of the sink.
Willing it to ring. The screen stays stubbornly grey and blank. I brush my
hair and my teeth, put on some makeup. My colour is returning to
normal. My eyes are still red, my throat still hurts, but I look all right. I
start counting. If the phone doesn’t ring before I get to fifty, I’m just
going to go down there and knock on the door. The phone doesn’t ring.
I stuff the phone into my jeans pocket, walk quickly through the
bedroom and open the door. Scott is sitting on the landing, his arms
around his knees, his head down. He doesn’t look up at me, so I walk