The allure of “The Girl on the Train” was never the whodunit element of Paula Hawkins’ hugely popular page-turner. It was the way in which Hawkins bounced around with time and narration between a trio of toxic women, all of whom were struggling with the increasing difficulty of maintaining the finely tuned facades they’d presented to the world.
There’s Rachel, who gives the book its title. Once a happily married publicist, she now looks longingly out the window as she commutes to and from the city twice a day, fantasizing about the seemingly perfect suburban lives she passes while sneaking sips of vodka to fend off the shakes.