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

"You must take it," Antonia insisted as Emma began to protest. "There's a café open down that way, look." She pointed down a side street to where a sign on a lighted window read: "Mr. Bap's."

"We'll go there to wait for my husband," Antonia said. "You can buy the coffees. You might want to get something for Ritchie too, and I wouldn't know what to buy."

"I . . . oh, okay." Emma gave in. Antonia had a point. Ritchie would be hungry soon. She'd buy something for him to eat, but as soon as she was at the table she'd wake him up and take him onto her knee and have him back to herself again.

Mr. Bap's turned out to be more of a fast-food restaurant than a café. Inside, the damp air of the street gave way to a strong smell of vinegar and chips. Rows of brown plastic tables and benches took up the front half of the restaurant. Most of the tables were in need of a wipe. At the back of the shop was the counter, lined with giant bottles of brown sauce and mustard. The only other customer, an elderly bearded man with a beige jacket zipped up to his neck, sat at a table by the wall, staring into a cup in his hand.

"Not very nice, is it?" Antonia wrinkled her nose. "Still, it's warm. And we won't be here for very long."

She wheeled the buggy to a table by the window. Ritchie was still asleep. Emma went to order the drinks.

"Two coffees, please," she said quickly to the gray-haired, stubble-faced man behind the counter. "And one of those chocolate buns. And a carton of milk."

"Large or small coffees?"

"Any one. It doesn't matter."

Emma fidgeted, gazing around her as the man poked through a tall steel fridge. The wall beside the counter was smeared with something red, darkened and crusted into the paint. Ketchup, Emma hoped. She shuddered. What a dreary place to work on a Sunday evening. Over by the window, Antonia had her mobile phone to her ear. She was talking in a low voice, probably so as not to wake Ritchie. Her hand covered her mouth as she spoke.

"Anything else?" the man behind the counter asked.

"Oh." Emma looked back at the tray. "No, thank you. Just what's there."

The man couldn't seem to work the cash register. The drawer kept springing open at the wrong time. Every time it did, the man tutted and slammed it shut again. Emma wished he'd just hand over the change. Ritchie had moved in his sleep. Now his head was tipped back, his mouth open, his two white top teeth showing. Antonia was still on the phone. She had her back to Emma, but her head was turned to the side and her hand had moved away from her mouth. Emma could see the movements of her lips as she spoke.

Bird rack, Antonia seemed to be saying. Or at least that was what her lips made it look like.

For no reason at all, a vivid image popped into Emma's head. Her mum, sitting, watching the telly in their terraced house in Bath. Emma was at the corner table, doing her homework. The curtains were drawn; the flames of the gas fire flickered. Emma could see her mum, sitting as usual in her brown-and-red flowery armchair by the fire. The half-drunk mug of tea beside her on the coffee table. The fixed, rather sad expression on her face as she concentrated on her program.

Emma frowned. How many times had she seen her mum watching the telly like that when she was young? What had made her suddenly think of it now? She looked again at Ritchie and shook her head.

Finally the man managed to get the drawer to work, and handed Emma her change. Emma took the coffees and bun over to the window. Antonia was still talking into her mobile phone. Emma slid the tray onto the table.

"Sorry for the delay," she began.

Antonia jumped and spun around. Then she lifted her finger and smiled.

"I have to go now," she said into the phone. "I'll see you soon."

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.