EPUB THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN

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Rachel takes the same commuter train every morning and night. Every day she rattles down the track, flashes past a stretch of cozy suburban. Download The Girl on the Train free ebook (pdf, epub, mobi) by Paula Synopsis book A debut psychological thriller about a woman who. The Girl on the Train: A Novel by Paula Hawkins. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format.


Epub The Girl On The Train

Author:FREDERICA BLAKES
Language:English, Dutch, French
Country:Kosovo
Genre:Academic & Education
Pages:379
Published (Last):17.05.2015
ISBN:850-1-19053-258-5
ePub File Size:18.61 MB
PDF File Size:9.68 MB
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The Girl on the Train (Movie Tie-In) The #1 New York Times Bestseller, USA Today Book of the Year, now a major motion picture starring Emily. But when the call girl is found murdered, the case takes a dangerous turn, and Nick resolves to find the . The Girl on the bestthing.info KB. Three women, three men, connected through marriage or infidelity. Each is to blame for something. But only one is a killer in this nail-biting, stealthy.

Noah Hawley. Before the Fall On a foggy summer night, eleven people--ten privileged, one down-on-his-luck painter--depart Martha's Vineyard on a private jet headed for New York. Sixteen minutes later, the unthinkable happens: the plane plunges into the ocean. The only survivors are the painter Scott Burroughs and a four-year-old boy, who is now the last remaining member of an immensely wealthy and powerful media mogul's family.

Was it by chance that so many influential people perished? Or was something more sinister at work? A storm of media attention brings Scott fame that quickly morphs into notoriety and accusations, and he scrambles to salvage truth from the wreckage. Amid trauma and chaos, the fragile relationship between Scott and the young boy grows and glows at the heart of this stunning novel, raising questions of fate, morality, and the inextricable ties that bind us together 2.

Stephen King. End of Watch Brady Hartsfield, perpetrator of the Mercedes Massacre, where eight people were killed and many more were badly injured, has been in the Traumatic Brain Injury Clinic for five years, in a vegetative state. According to his doctors, anything approaching a complete recovery is unlikely.

But behind the drool and stare, Brady is awake, and in possession of deadly new powers that allow him to wreak unimaginable havoc without ever leaving his hospital room. Retired police detective Bill Hodges, the unlikely hero of Mr.

Mercedes and Finders Keepers, now runs an investigation agency with his partner, Holly Gibney, who delivered the blow to Hartsfield's head that put him on the brain injury ward. Brady also remembers that.

Because Brady Hartsfield is back, and planning revenge not just on Bill Hodges and his friends, but on an entire city. In End of Watch, Stephen King brings the Hodges trilogy to a sublimely terrifying conclusion, combining the detective fiction of Mr.

Mercedes and Finders Keepers with the supernatural suspense that has been his trademark. The result is an unnerving look at human vulnerability and up-all-night entertainment. Joseph Finder. But when she sees something unsettling from her window one morning, it sets in motion a chilling series of events that make her question whom she can really trust.

This is one creepy, dark thriller.

The book is smartly paced and delightfully complex. Just when it seems Hawkins is leading us one way, Rachel, Anna, or Megan change the game. Nothing can be taken for granted in The Girl on the Train, not even the account of the girl herself. The surprise-packed narratives hurtle toward a stunning climax, horrifying as a train wreck and just as riveting. Even the most astute readers will be in for a shock as Hawkins slowly unspools the facts, exposing the harsh realities of love and obsession's inescapable links to violence.

Rachel, who is unabashed in her darker instincts, anchors the narrative. Readers will fear, pity, sympathize and root for her, though she's not always understandable or trustworthy. En route to a terrorizing and twisted conclusion, all three women—and the men with whom they share their lives—are forced to dismantle their delusions about others and themselves, their choices and their respective relationships.

We had such plans, Ben and I. He died on the A10, his skull crushed beneath the wheels of an articulated lorry. I miss him every day. More than anyone, I think. Or maybe he was just the beginning of it. Which could be weird, but it could be a laugh, too.

This is not quite the same thing, of course.

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I told him I find it difficult enough talking to people I know about this stuff—I can barely even talk to him about it. Poor Scott. He loves me so much, it makes me ache. I would drive me mad.

But I have to do something, and at least this feels like action. I need to find something that I must do, something undeniable. Wait for a man to come home and love you. Either that or look around for something to distract you. Films have always led me to believe that they kick you out the moment your thirty minutes are up. Soft and low. Slightly accented, which I was expecting, because his name is Dr. Kamal Abdic. I guess he must be midthirties, although he looks very young with his incredible dark honey skin.

He has hands I could imagine on me, long and delicate fingers, I can almost feel them on my skin. He asks me whether I take drugs, drink alcohol. I tell him I have other vices these days, and I catch his eye and I think he knows what I mean. Then I feel as if I ought to be taking this a bit more seriously, so I tell him about the gallery closing and that I feel at a loose end all the time, my lack of direction, the fact that I spend too much time in my head.

But I moved to Corly a few years back. Scott is waiting for me when I get home, he thrusts a drink into my hand, he wants to know all about it. I say it was OK. He asks me about the therapist: did I like him, did he seem nice? He asks me whether we talked about Ben.

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Scott thinks everything is about Ben. He may be right. He may know me better than I think he does. I felt almost refreshed when I got out of bed, so instead of sitting on the terrace I decided to go for a walk. The only places I seem to go these days are to the shops, my Pilates classes and the therapist.

I walk out of the house, turn right and then left onto Kingly Road. Past the pub, the Rose. Past the pub, past the shops. I turn left again, walk down to the little playground, the only rather poor excuse for green space we have. Half the Pilates girls will be here, head to toe in Sweaty Betty, competitively stretching, manicured hands wrapped around their Starbucks. I carry on past the park and down towards Roseberry Avenue. I tried so hard to make a success of it. Wrong place, wrong time—no call for art in suburbia, not in this economy.

Instead, I turn right, past the Tesco Express, past the other pub, the one where people from the estate go, and back towards home.

Tom just ignores me.

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But Anna seems to take things personally. She obviously thinks that my short-lived career as a nanny came to an end because of her or because of her child. I stop at the corner and peer into the underpass. It reminds me of playing in the garden as a child, looking for frogs by the pond with Ben.

I walk on. I slip my flip-flops on and go downstairs, out of the front door and on to Blenheim Road. I walk down the road, towards the station. I stop for a moment outside number twenty-three and think about ringing the doorbell.

What would I say? Ran out of sugar? Just fancied a chat? I carry on towards the corner and, without really thinking about it, I continue down into the underpass.

Dropped by a runner, probably, but something about it gives me the creeps and I want to get out of there quickly, back into the sunshine. On the way back down the road, he passes me in his car, our eyes meet for just a second and he smiles at me.

When I drink, I hardly sleep at all. I pass out cold for an hour or two, then I wake, sick with fear, sick with myself.

There is just a handful of people in my carriage today, none in my immediate vicinity. There is no one watching me, so I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. At this time of morning, at this time of year, the sun shines directly onto the back of the trackside houses, flooding them with light.

I can feel him smiling at me, the blush spreading from my chest to my neck, the way it always did when he looked at me a certain way. I can see Jess in her garden, and behind her a man walking out of the house. This man is taller, slender, darker. He bends down, placing the mugs on the metal table on their patio.

Jess walks towards him, she puts her hands around his waist and she kisses him, long and deep. The train moves. Why would she do that?

I feel a real sense of disappointment, I feel as though I have been cheated on. A familiar ache fills my chest. I have felt this way before. On a larger scale, to a more intense degree, of course, but I remember the quality of the pain. I found out the way everyone seems to find out these days: an electronic slip.

But I was actually doing a good thing, I was trying to make amends for being a bit miserable and difficult, I was planning a special fourth-anniversary getaway, a trip to remind us how we used to be. I wanted it to be a surprise, so I had to check his work schedule secretly, I had to look. Once, I answered his phone when he was in the shower and he got quite upset and accused me of not trusting him. I felt awful because he seemed so hurt. It was the perfect opportunity, so I had a look at his calendar, noted down some dates.

When I closed down the browser window with his calendar in it, there was his email account, logged in, laid bare. That was it, just a line of X s. I thought it was spam at first, until I realized that they were kisses. I fell asleep last night thinking of you, I was dreaming about kissing your mouth, your breasts, the inside of your thighs.

I woke this morning with my head full of you, desperate to touch you. He told her so, often. I feel a flash of intense anger. I feel as though something has been taken away from me.

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How could she? How could Jess do this? What is wrong with her? Look at the life they have, look at how beautiful it is! I have never understood how people can blithely disregard the damage they do by following their hearts. Who was it said that following your heart is a good thing? It is pure egotism, a selfishness to conquer all. Hatred floods me.

THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN (Paula Hawkins)

If I saw that woman now, if I saw Jess, I would spit in her face. I would scratch her eyes out. I, fortunately, have a seat, but by the aisle, not next to the window, and there are bodies pressed against my shoulder, my knee, invading my space. I have an urge to push back, to get up and shove. I cannot get enough oxygen into my lungs. I feel sick.

I blame Jess. I was walking around in a daze, not concentrating on where I was going. Without thinking, I went into the coffee shop that everyone from Huntingdon Whitely uses. I was through the door before I saw them, and by the time I did it was too late to turn back; they were looking at me, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before they remembered to fix smiles on their faces.

Martin Miles with Sasha and Harriet, a triumvirate of awkwardness, beckoning, waving me over. Sasha and Harriet smiled, gave me tentative air-kisses, trying not to get too close.

Not one.

Harriet and Sasha were looking over my shoulder at the door, they were embarrassed for me, they wanted a way out. I walked to the very far end, next to the zoo. I must have been there for less than half an hour when my mobile rang.

It was Tom again, calling from the home phone. I tried to picture him, working at his laptop in our sunny kitchen, but the image was spoilt by encroachments from his new life. She would be there somewhere, in the background, making tea or feeding the little girl, her shadow falling over him.

I let the call go to voice mail. I put the phone back into my bag and tried to ignore it.

I held out for about three minutes before I retrieved the phone and dialled into voice mail.But only one is a killer in this nail-biting, stealthy psychological thriller about human frailty and obsession. The day stretches out in front of me, not a minute of it filled. I miss the way we were when we were together, Ben and I. At the time, I thought it might be fun. Maybe I was vengeful. Then I walked to the station, bought a couple of cans of gin and tonic and got onto the train.

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