_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

We all sat down and nobody said anything; they just looked at me
expectantly.
“I remembered the man,” I said. “I told you there was a man at the
station. I can describe him.” Riley raised her eyebrows ever so slightly
and shifted in her seat. “He was about medium height, medium build,
reddish hair. I slipped on the steps and he caught my arm.” Gaskill
leaned forward, his elbows on the table, hands clasped together in front
of his mouth. “He was wearing . . . I think he was wearing a blue shirt.”
This is not actually true. I do remember a man, and I’m pretty sure he
had reddish hair, and I think that he smiled at me, or smirked at me,
when I was on the train. I think that he got off at Witney, and I think he
might have spoken to me. It’s possible I might have slipped on the steps.
I have a memory of it, but I can’t tell whether the memory belongs to
Saturday night or to another time. There have been many slips, on many
staircases. I have no idea what he was wearing.
The detectives were not impressed with my tale. Riley gave an almost
imperceptible shake of her head. Gaskill unclasped his hands and spread
them out, palms upwards, in front of him. “OK. Is that really what you
came here to tell me, Ms. Watson?” he asked. There was no anger in his
tone, he sounded almost encouraging. I wished that Riley would go
away. I could talk to him; I could trust him.
“I don’t work for Huntingdon Whitely any longer,” I said.
“Oh.” He leaned back in his seat, looking more interested.
“I left three months ago. My flatmate—well, she’s my landlady, really
—I haven’t told her. I’m trying to find another job. I didn’t want her to
know because I thought she would worry about the rent. I have some
money. I can pay my rent, but . . . Anyway, I lied to you yesterday about
my job and I apologize for that.”
Riley leaned forward and gave me an insincere smile. “I see. You no
longer work for Huntingdon Whitely. You don’t work for anyone, is that
right? You’re unemployed?” I nodded. “OK. So . . . you’re not registered
to collect unemployment benefits, nothing like that?”
“No.”
“And . . . your flatmate, she hasn’t noticed that you don’t go to work
every day?”
“I do. I mean, I don’t go to the office, but I go into London, the way I
used to, at the same time and everything, so that she . . . so that she won’t
know.” Riley glanced at Gaskill; he kept his eyes on my face, the hint of
a frown between his eyes. “It sounds odd, I know . . .” I said, and I tailed