_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

gallery—I used to live in Witney. I think I have information that would
interest you. Please email me back on this address.
Rachel Watson
I can feel the heat come to my face, my stomach a pit of acid.
Yesterday—sensible, clearheaded, right-thinking—I decided I must
accept that my part in this story was over. But my better angels lost
again, defeated by drink, by the person I am when I drink. Drunk Rachel
sees no consequences, she is either excessively expansive and optimistic
or wrapped up in hate. She has no past, no future. She exists purely in the
moment. Drunk Rachel—wanting to be part of the story, needing a way
to persuade Scott to talk to her—she lied. I lied.
I want to drag knives over my skin, just so that I can feel something
other than shame, but I’m not even brave enough to do that. I start
writing to Tom, writing and deleting, writing and deleting, trying to find
ways to ask forgiveness for the things I said last night. If I had to write
down every transgression for which I should apologize to Tom, I could
fill a book.
EVENING
A week ago, almost exactly a week ago, Megan Hipwell walked out of
number fifteen Blenheim Road and disappeared. No one has seen her
since. Neither her phone nor her bank cards have been used since
Saturday, either. When I read that in a news story earlier today, I started
to cry. I am ashamed now of the secret thoughts I had. Megan is not a
mystery to be solved, she is not a figure who wanders into the tracking
shot at the beginning of a film, beautiful, ethereal, insubstantial. She is
not a cipher. She is real.
I am on the train, and I’m going to her home. I’m going to meet her
husband.
I had to phone him. The damage was done. I couldn’t just ignore the
email—he would tell the police. Wouldn’t he? I would, in his position, if
a stranger contacted me, claiming to have information, and then
disappeared. He might have called the police already; they might be
waiting for me when I get there.
Sitting here, in my usual seat, though not on my usual day, I feel as
though I am driving off a cliff. It felt the same this morning when I
dialled his number, like falling through the dark, not knowing when
you’re going to hit the ground. He spoke to me in a low voice, as though