_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

there were someone else in the room, someone he didn’t want to
overhear.
“Can we talk in person?” he asked.
“I . . . no. I don’t think so . . .”
“Please?”
I hesitated just for a moment, and then I agreed.
“Could you come to the house? Not now, my . . . there are people
here. This evening?” He gave me the address, which I pretended to note
down.
“Thank you for contacting me,” he said, and he hung up.
I knew as I was agreeing that it wasn’t a good idea. What I know
about Scott, from the papers, is almost nothing. What I know from my
own observations, I don’t really know. I don’t know anything about
Scott. I know things about Jason—who, I have to keep reminding
myself, doesn’t exist. All I know for sure—for absolutely certain—is that
Scott’s wife has been missing for a week. I know that he is probably a
suspect. And I know, because I saw that kiss, that he has a motive to kill
her. Of course, he might not know that he has a motive, but . . . Oh, I’ve
tied myself up in knots thinking about it, but how could I pass up the
opportunity to approach that house, the one I’ve observed a hundred
times from the trackside, from the street? To walk up to his front door, to
go inside, to sit in his kitchen, on his terrace, where they sat, where I
watched them?
It was too tempting. Now I sit on the train, my arms wrapped around
myself, hands jammed against my sides to stop them from trembling,
like an excited child caught up in an adventure. I was so glad to have a
purpose that I stopped thinking about the reality. I stopped thinking about
Megan.
I’m thinking about her now. I have to convince Scott that I knew her
—a little, not a lot. That way, he’ll believe me when I tell him that I saw
her with another man. If I admit to lying right away, he’ll never trust me.
So I try to imagine what it would have been like to drop by the gallery,
chat with her over a coffee. Does she drink coffee? We would talk about
art, perhaps, or yoga, or our husbands. I don’t know anything about art,
I’ve never done yoga. I don’t have a husband. And she betrayed hers.
I think of the things her real friends said about her: wonderful, funny,
beautiful, warmhearted. Loved. She made a mistake. It happens. We are
none of us perfect.