_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

“Rachel?” he asked, looking down at me, unsmiling. I nodded. He
offered his hand and I took it. He gestured for me to enter the house, but
for a moment I didn’t move. I was afraid of him. Up close he is
physically intimidating, tall and broad-shouldered, his arms and chest
well defined. His hands are huge. It crossed my mind that he could crush
me—my neck, my rib cage—without much effort.
I moved past him into the hallway, my arm brushing against his as I
did, and felt a flush rising to my face. He smelled of old sweat, and his
dark hair was matted against his head as though he hadn’t showered in a
while.
It was in the living room that the déjà vu hit me, so strong it was
almost frightening. I recognized the fireplace flanked by alcoves on the
far wall, the way the light streamed in from the street through slanted
blinds; I knew that when I turned to my left there would be glass and
green and beyond that the railway line. I turned and there was the kitchen
table, the French doors behind it and the lush patch of lawn. I knew this
house. I felt dizzy, I wanted to sit down; I thought about that black hole
last Saturday night, all those lost hours.
It didn’t mean anything, of course. I know that house, but not because
I’ve been there. I know it because it’s exactly the same as number
twenty-three: a hallway leads to the stairs, and on the right-hand side is
the living room, knocked through into the kitchen. The patio and the
garden are familiar to me because I’ve seen them from the train. I didn’t
go upstairs, but I know that if I had, there would have been a landing
with a large sash window on it, and that if you climbed through that
window you would find yourself on the makeshift roof terrace. I know
that there will be two bedrooms, the master with two large windows
looking out onto the street and a smaller room at the back, overlooking
the garden. Just because I know that house inside and out does not mean
that I’ve been there before.
Still, I was trembling when Scott showed me into the kitchen. He
offered me a cup of tea. I sat down at the kitchen table while he boiled
the kettle, dropped a tea bag into a mug and slopped boiling water over
the counter, muttering to himself under his breath. There was a sharp
smell of antiseptic in the room, but Scott himself was a mess, a sweat
patch on the back of his T-shirt, his jeans hanging loose on his hips as
though they were too big for him. I wondered when was the last time he
had eaten.
He placed the mug of tea in front of me and sat on the opposite side of
the kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him. The silence stretched