_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

Gaskill ushered me out of the door and into the main, open-plan part
of the office. There were perhaps a dozen police officers in there. One or
two shot me sideways glances, there might have been a flicker of interest
or disdain, I couldn’t be sure. We walked through the office and into the
corridor and then I saw him walking towards me, with Riley at his side:
Scott Hipwell. He was coming through the main entrance. His head was
down, but I knew right away that it was him. He looked up and nodded
an acknowledgment to Gaskill, then he glanced at me. For just a second
our eyes met and I could swear that he recognized me. I thought of that
morning when I saw him on the terrace, when he was looking down at
the track, when I could feel him looking at me. We passed each other in
the corridor. He was so close to me I could have touched him—he was
beautiful in the flesh, hollowed out and coiled like a spring, nervous
energy radiating off him. As I got to the main hallway I turned to look at
him, sure I could feel his eyes on me, but when I looked back it was
Riley who was watching me.
I took the train into London and went to the library. I read every
article I could find about the case, but learned nothing more. I looked for
hypnotherapists in Ashbury, but didn’t take it any further—it’s expensive
and it’s unclear whether it actually helps with memory recovery. But
reading the stories of those who claimed that they had recovered
memories through hypnotherapy, I realized that I was more afraid of
success than failure. I’m afraid not just of what I might learn about that
Saturday night, but so much more. I’m not sure I could bear to relive the
stupid, awful things I’ve done, to hear the words I said in spite, to
remember the look on Tom’s face as I said them. I’m too afraid to
venture into that darkness.
I thought about sending Scott another email, but there’s really no
need. The morning’s meeting with Detective Gaskill proved to me that
the police are taking me seriously. I have no further role to play, I have to
accept that now. And I can feel at least that I may have helped, because I
cannot believe it could be a coincidence that Megan disappeared the day
after I saw her with that man.
With a joyful click, fizz, I open the second can of G&T and realize,
with a rush, that I haven’t thought about Tom all day. Until now, anyway.
I’ve been thinking about Scott, about Gaskill, about B, about the man on
the train. Tom has been relegated to fifth place. I sip my drink and feel
that at last I have something to celebrate. I know that I’m going to be
better, that I’m going to be happy. It won’t be long.