Into the Water

by Paula Hawkins

No one liked to think about the fact that the water in that river was infected with the blood and bile of persecuted women, unhappy women; they drank it every day.

“You don’t think she fell, do you?” she said, her lip curling. “You know better than that.”

She had never realized before her life was torn apart how awkward grief was, how inconvenient for everyone with whom the mourner came into contact. At first it was acknowledged and respected and deferred to. But after a while it got in the way—of conversation, of laughter, of normal life. Everyone wanted to put it behind them, to get on with things, and there you were, in the way, blocking the path, dragging the body of your dead child behind you.

They come here to swim with their sisters.

Beckford is not a suicide spot. Beckford is a place to get rid of troublesome women.

She wasn’t upset about the funeral. She was upset because Patrick had drowned the tabby in the river that morning.

he was all there ever was for her, and now he was gone . . . Gone, but he still sat by the fire with his boots on, and drank and drank, and looked at her as if she was the enemy, and she wished he was dead.

If he knew what I’d been feeling, what I’d been through, I don’t think he’d be holding on to my arm. I think he’d been running for his fucking life.