Free The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins Page B

B.
    2. B has harmed her.
    3. Scott has harmed her.
    4. She has simply left her husband and gone to live elsewhere.
    5. Someone other than B or Scott has harmed her.
    I think the first possibility is most likely, and four is a strong contender, too, because Megan is an independent, wilful woman, I’m sure of it. And if she were having an affair, she might need to get away to clear her head, mightn’t she? Five does not seem especially likely, since murder by a stranger isn’t all that common.
    The bump on my head is throbbing, and I can’t stop thinking about the argument I saw, or imagined, or dreamed about, on Saturday night. As we pass Megan and Scott’s house, I look up. I can hear the blood pulsing in my head. I feel excited. I feel afraid. The windows of number fifteen, reflecting morning sunshine, look like sightless eyes.
Evening
    I’m just settling into my seat when my phone rings. It’s Cathy. I let it go to voicemail.
    She leaves a message: ‘Hi Rachel, just phoning to make sure you’re OK.’ She’s worried about me, because of the thing with the taxi. ‘I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, you know, about the other day, what I said about moving out. I shouldn’t have. I overreacted. You can stay as long as you want to.’ There’s a long pause and then she says, ‘Give me a ring, OK? And come straight home, Rach, don’t go to the pub.’
    I don’t intend to. I wanted a drink at lunchtime; I was desperate for one after what happened in Witney this morning. I didn’t have one though, because I had to keep a clear head. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything worth keeping a clear head for.
    It was so strange, this morning, my trip to Witney. I felt as though I hadn’t been there in ages, although of course it’s only been a few days. It may as well have been a completely different place, though, a different station in a different town. I was a different person to the one who went there on Saturday night. Today I was stiff and sober, hyper-aware of the noise and the light and fear of discovery.
    I was trespassing. That’s what it felt like this morning, because it’s their territory now, it’s Tom and Anna’s and Scott and Megan’s. I’m the outsider, I don’t belong there, and yet everything is so familiar to me. Down the concrete steps at the station, right past the newspaper kiosk into Roseberry Avenue, half a block to the end of the T-junction, to the right the archway leading to a dank pedestrian underpass beneath the track, and to the left Blenheim Road, narrow and tree-lined, flanked with its handsome Victorian terraces. It feels like coming home: not just any home but a childhood home, a place left behind a lifetime ago; it’s the familiarity of walking up stairs and knowing exactly which one is going to creak.
    The familiarity isn’t just in my head, it’s in my bones; it’s muscle memory. This morning, as I walked past the blackened tunnel mouth, the entrance to the underpass, my pace quickened. I didn’t have to think about it because I always walk a little faster on that section. Every night, coming home, especially in winter, I used to pick up the pace, glancing quickly to the right, just to make sure. There was never anyone there – not on any of those nights and not today – and yet I stopped dead as I looked into the darkness this morning, because I could suddenly see myself. I could see myself a few metres in, slumped against the wall, my head in my hands, and both head and hands smeared with blood.
    My heart thudding in my chest, I stood there, morning commuters stepping around me as they continued on their way to the station, one or two turning to look at me as they passed, as I stood stock still. I didn’t know – don’t know – if it was real. Why would I have gone into the underpass? What reason would I have had to go down there, where it’s dark and damp and stinks of piss?
    I turned around and headed back to the station. I didn’t want to