_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

Another deep breath. “She was . . . out on your lawn,” I said. “Just
there.” I pointed out to the garden. “She . . . I saw her from the train.”
The look of incredulity on his face was unmistakable. “I take the train
into London from Ashbury every day. I go right past here. I saw her, she
was with someone. And it . . . it wasn’t you.”
“How do you know? . . . Friday morning? Friday—the day before she
went missing?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t here,” he said. “I was away. I was at a conference in
Birmingham, I got back on Friday evening.” Spots of colour appeared
high on his cheeks, his scepticism giving way to something else. “So you
saw her, on the lawn, with someone? And . . .”
“She kissed him,” I said. I had to get it out eventually. I had to tell
him. “They were kissing.”
He straightened up, his hands, still balled into fists, hanging at his
side. The spots of colour on his cheeks grew darker, angrier.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I know this is a terrible thing to
hear . . .”
He held up his hand, waved me away. Contemptuous. He wasn’t
interested in my sympathy.
I know how that feels. Sitting there, I remembered with almost perfect
clarity how it felt when I sat in my own kitchen, five doors down, while
Lara, my former best friend, sat opposite me, her fat toddler squirming
on her lap. I remember her telling me how sorry she was that my
marriage was over, I remember losing my temper at her platitudes. She
knew nothing of my pain. I told her to piss off and she told me not to
speak like that in front of her child. I haven’t seen her since.
“What did he look like, this man you saw her with?” Scott asked. He
was standing with his back to me, looking out onto the lawn.
“He was tall—taller than you, maybe. Dark-skinned. I think he might
have been Asian. Indian—something like that.”
“And they were kissing, out here in the garden?”
“Yes.”
He gave a long sigh. “Jesus, I need a drink. He turned to face me.
“Would you like a beer?”
I did, I wanted a drink desperately, but I said no. I watched as he
fetched himself a bottle from the fridge, opened it, took a long slug. I
could almost feel the cold liquid sliding down my throat as I watched
him; my hand ached for want of a glass. Scott leaned against the counter,
his head bent almost to his chest.