Free The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins

lonely, that her life could do with a bit of intrigue.
    In my session with Kamal, we were talking about Scott, about the thing with the laptop. It happened about a week ago. I’d been looking for Mac – I’d done several searches, I just wanted to find out where he was, what he was up to. There are pictures of almost everyone on the internet these days, and I wanted to see his face. I couldn’t find him. I went to bed early that night. Scott stayed up watching TV, and I’d forgotten to delete my browser history. Stupid mistake – it’s usually the last thing I do before I shut down my computer, no matter what I’ve been looking at. I know Scott has ways of finding what I’ve been up to anyway, being the techie he is, but it takes a lot longer, so most of the time he doesn’t bother.
    In any case, I forgot. And the next day, we got into a fight. One of the bruising ones. He wanted to know who Craig was, how long I’d been seeing him, where we met, what he did for me that Scott didn’t do. Stupidly, I told Scott that he was a friend from my past, which only made it worse. Kamal asked me if I was afraid of Scott, and I got really pissed off.
    ‘He’s my husband,’ I snapped. ‘Of course I’m not afraid of him.’
    Kamal looked quite shocked. I actually shocked myself. I hadn’t anticipated the force of my anger, the depth of my protectiveness towards Scott. It was a surprise to me, too.
    ‘There are many women who are frightened of their husbands, I’m afraid, Megan.’ I tried to say something, but he held up his hand to silence me. ‘The behaviour you’re describing – reading your emails, going through your internet browser history – you describe all this as though it is commonplace, as though it is normal. It isn’t, Megan. It isn’t normal to invade someone’s privacy to that degree. It’s what is often seen as a form of emotional abuse.’
    I laughed then, because it sounded so melodramatic. ‘It isn’t abuse,’ I told him. ‘Not if you don’t mind. And I don’t. I don’t mind.’
    He smiled at me then, a rather sad smile. ‘Don’t you think you should?’ he asked.
    I shrugged. ‘Perhaps I should, but the fact is, I don’t. He’s jealous, he’s possessive. That’s the way he is. It doesn’t stop me loving him, and some battles aren’t worth fighting. I’m careful – usually. I cover my tracks, so it isn’t usually an issue.’
    He gave a little shake of the head, almost imperceptible.
    ‘I didn’t think you were here to judge me,’ I said.
    When the session ended, I asked him if he wanted to have a drink with me. He said no, he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be appropriate. So I followed him home. He lives in a flat just down the road from the practice. I knocked on his door, and when he opened it, I asked, ‘Is this appropriate?’ I slipped my hand around the back of his neck, stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth.
    ‘Megan,’ he said, voice like velvet. ‘Don’t. I can’t do this. Don’t.’
    It was exquisite, that push and pull, desire and restraint. I didn’t want to let the feeling go, I wanted so badly to be able to hold on to it.
    I got up in the early hours of the morning, head spinning, full of stories. I couldn’t just lie there, awake, alone, my mind ticking over all those opportunities which I could take or leave, so I got up and got dressed and started walking. Found myself here. I’ve been walking around and playing things back in my head – he said, she said, temptation, release; if only I could settle on something, choose to stick, not twist. What if the thing I’m looking for can never be found? What if it just isn’t possible?
    The air is cold in my lungs, the tips of my fingers are turning blue. Part of me just wants to lie down here, among the leaves, let the cold take me. I can’t. It’s time to go.
    It’s almost nine by the time I get back to Blenheim Road and as I turn the corner I see her, coming towards me, pushing the buggy in