Excerpt from The Stranger on the Train by Abbie Taylor, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

That man's voice.

Why didn't she pull the alarm?

Something sucked at Emma's lungs. She tried to breathe, and nothing came in.

Suppose she got to the next station, and Ritchie wasn't there?

No. No. Don't think it. Of course he would be there. The woman had looked nice. What else would she do but take him off? It was the logical thing. She had said: Next. Stop. She had said it. Emma went back to picturing herself with Ritchie, his stubby, warm little body, his smell. Her eyes prickled. She had been such a crap mother to him. Not just today but every day; ever since he'd been born. He deserved better than her. She put her hand over her mouth, quietening her pain, swallowing back the tears, the guilt. She would make it up to him. She would. In another minute. Less than a minute. How long could the train take? When would the tunnel end? How long before she stopped seeing her own face in the window and saw the platform and Ritchie instead?

But what if he wasn't there?

The tunnel vanished. Emma's face was replaced by the outdoors: navy blue sky, brick walls, tracks converging on each other. Then they were in the station; lights and platforms and posters. Clunkety-clunk. The train slowed; she whipped her head from side to side, searching the platform, her lungs heavy, struggling to fill with the weight. There was a woman on a seat with a baby and . . . It was her baby, it was Ritchie, it was her woman. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She was going to fall. She managed to hold herself up until the train stopped and the doors opened, then she ran out and flew to the bench. Ritchie was sitting, quite unconcerned, on the woman's knee, chewing his sleeve, and the woman was looking at her and smiling. As Emma reached them, the woman rose to her feet, holding Ritchie up before her like a gift. Emma grabbed him and kissed all over his cheeks and forehead and ears, pulling his feathery head tight into her neck. She squeezed him to her until neither of them could breathe, and wept his name over and over again into the side of his silky little face.

Chapter Two

"Ngg."

Ritchie wailed, arching his back and pushing Emma away with his fists. She was squashing him. His breath smelled of rusk, and orange lollipop. Emma's arms were too weak to hold him. She needed to sit down. The sides of her vision were going dark.

"Are you all right?" the woman asked. Her voice echoed from a long way away. "Shall I take him for you?"

Emma felt Ritchie being lifted from her arms; she felt the seat behind her with her knees and sank into it. A tide sound rushed at her ears. She closed her eyes and leaned forward.

After a minute, the rushing noise receded. The platform returned to normal around her.

Emma sat up.

"Thank you," she said, and burst into tears.

She didn't know how long she cried. Probably no more than a few seconds, but when she looked up, Ritchie, sitting on the woman's knee, was staring at her, open-mouthed. A long thread of drool hung from his lower lip, inches from the woman's expensive-looking sleeve. It was that which made Emma get herself under control.

"I'm sorry." She pressed the bases of her hands to her eyes. "There's only the two of us, my little boy and me. It's so hard sometimes . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She shook her head. "You don't want to hear this. You must think I'm a terrible mother."

"Nonsense," the woman murmured. "You've had a dreadful shock."

She was right. Emma longed to cuddle Ritchie, but her hands were trembling and her face was soaked with tears and mucus. There was blood on her lip as well. She must have bitten it. She looked around for something to wipe it with. This station was much busier than the last one. Where were they? She looked at the sign above the seats. Whitechapel. Another train was pulling into the platform. Two girls stood up to meet it.

Excerpted from The Stranger on the Train by Abbie Taylor. Copyright © 2014 by Abbie Taylor. Excerpted by permission of Atria/Emily Bestler Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.