The Fallen Angels Book Club Read Online Free PDF Page B

The opposite of love isn’t hatred, it’s indifference. I was working on it, not every day, but as often as my sanity allowed. I was glad to feel almost nothing.
    Nighttime was always the worst for me. Insomnia had become my companion. At night, I’d close my eyes, and the noises and smells from prison would assail me. A few months ago there was a special on TV about women in prison. I couldn’t watch it. Even though my cell was behind a door and not bars, I heard my fellow inmates crying and praying. It went on for hours on end. I could neither cry nor pray now.
    I had to get a pardon. I’d do whatever it took. Rory’s unsolved murder could threaten my future dreams. I had to have another chance.
    I had to.

CHAPTER FIVE
    S aturday evening slid into Sunday. To keep busy, I spent the day cleaning out my garage. Thinking about Bill and Rory would only take me back to how much I had at stake and the one prospect that froze my heart—returning to prison. By the weekend’s end, I’d finished a rough draft of my statement but Abby still hadn’t returned my call. I wasn’t surprised not to hear from the other members. I didn’t want my name to crop up on their caller ID, either.
    It was difficult, but I was able to avoid even contemplating Bill’s request to call him. If it seemed as if my thoughts might venture in that direction, I recalled the bad case of poison ivy I caught during my internment.
    I was more than ready for Monday when it came. It might appear ironic to an outsider that I had found a job working in a law firm. After my tour in California’s residence hotel at Chowchilla Prison, I was wary of the law enforcement profession, but I had an immense amount of respect for the law.
    I passed my key card over the gray panel next to the ceiling-high wooden doors and listened for the sound of the opening click. I loved the firm’s front entry. Plush maroon and deep purple Persian area rugs covered wide-planked hickory floors. Three sage green upholstered sofas encircled an oblong glass table covered with an assortment of art catalogs, stock market newsletters and regional magazines. Something for everyone. The cleaning crew rubbed lemon oil on the massive oak bookshelves holding antique Chinese curios and artifacts. The place not only looked rich, it smelled rich.
    I headed along the wide hallway for my office, determined to let work keep my thoughts from returning to the vision of a murdered Rory. I stopped. Mark Haddan, a new young associate, came toward me with rolled up sleeves and a loosened tie.
    â€œThank goodness, Hollis. I’m so glad you came in early. Can you help me with the copy machine? I’ve got my first deposition at eight thirty and my opening questions are jammed inside this wretched piece of junk.”
    â€œGood morning to you, too, Mark. Why did you wait until this morning to prepare your questions?” I shook my head and followed him down the narrow corridor. As we rounded the corner leading to the staff offices, the luxury décor of the front reception area abruptly ended, and we trod on well-worn indoor-outdoor carpet.
    â€œSpare me,” Mark said. “If I admit I’m an idiot, will you fix the damn thing?”
    â€œYou’ll owe me.” Even as I said it, I knew I couldn’t count on collecting. Attorneys never noticed the administrative staff until they needed something.
    Ordinarily, on a Monday morning, the lineup of gray steel copy machines stood in welcome for the onslaught of us Type-A workaholics. During the week, the stacked files, scattered paperwork, discarded half-filled coffee cups, and open law books would incrementally take possession of the room, coming to a crescendo of chaos by week’s end. I looked unbelievingly at the room. Mark had already wreaked enough havoc to make it look like Friday. I put my purse down near the door, in the only spot not covered in paper.
    I decided to give him