The Fallen Angels Book Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

twenty-something manager who strode up to the desk was not in my league. I disregarded his ill-concealed irritation.
    â€œI’ll only be a moment.” I smiled sweetly.
    Saying something under his breath about people wanting to go home to their families, he pointed toward the wrought-iron side gate that led to a secured area. I followed him and waited for the automatic door to buzz open and then close behind us as if air-locked. I went straight to the box at the end of the third row, a few inches from the floor. After I had signed the required card, he inserted his key into the lock and I did the same. Finally alone, I gingerly opened the container, grabbed a pile of Polaroids and flipped through them. They had started to fade a little. Next time I’d have to bring my digital camera to take shots of the photos. I skimmed through them one more time.
    My smile hadn’t changed over the years, but my eyes had. In a crowd of revelers, the twenty-three-year-old who grinned back at me with her arm loosely thrown around the shoulders of her sister was long gone. The shot was taken BB—Before Bill, when I still had expectations of doing good in the world. Rita insisted on taking a picture with me holding my acceptance letter to Hastings Law School. It was the only picture I had of my sister. Bill destroyed all of our photographs in a futile effort to get rid of anything incriminating. Baby brother, Greg, had taken the photos with Mom’s old camera. I didn’t have any pictures of him. I could only imagine how he must look now. Blinking back tears, I knew this train of thought would take me to a past that had abandoned me, and I it.
    Taking the pictures I came for, I neither thanked nor looked at the manager as he stiffly stood at attention holding the front door open.

    I am a so-so cook, but I make great salads. I find that the right ingredients can make the most stressful day come to a peaceful end with a simple toss of salad greens.
    I hummed along to a CD of Diana Krall as I added chopped endive, sliced artichoke hearts and heirloom cherry tomatoes and topped it all with cannelloni beans, a few chunks of blue cheese and leftover pancetta. I pulled a bottle of my favorite pinot noir from the pantry shelf and took everything to the table.
    At last.
    The first sip of wine brought a satisfied smile to my face. As I reached for the honey-mustard vinaigrette, the doorbell sounded. Figures.
    I looked through the peephole and froze.
    â€œWho is it?” I said, hoping to buy myself a couple of seconds.
    â€œMs. Morgan? It’s Detective Faber. I’m with Detective Lincoln. Can we speak to you for a few minutes?” His voice sounded loud and clear, even through the door.
    Taking a deep breath, I let them in. “Why have you come back?”
    They looked around with curiosity as if they’d never been here before. I guided them once more into the living room. I didn’t sit because I didn’t want them to. We all stood around the coffee table.
    Faber took out that thin black notebook of his and flipped open a page. “Ms. Morgan, do you know a Rebecca Lynley?”
    They had me. I knew my voice would have a tremble. “I think you already know the answer to that. Yes, I legally changed my name. Hollis is my middle name and Morgan is my maiden name.”
    Rebecca Hollis Morgan Lynley was my unlucky name. It was the name that brought shame to me, my family and my friends. It was the name I was known by when I served time in prison. It was the name I acquired when I married that jerk. Rebecca Hollis Morgan Lynley. It was a name I never wanted to hear again, but here it was, turning up like a bad penny. For one insane moment, I wondered what was behind that bad penny saying. I knew how that penny felt.
    Lincoln said, “I see. Well, we talked to your former parole officer and he spoke highly of you. Does your employer know of your record?”
    Ah, a man after my own way of thinking.