The Fallen Angels Book Club Read Online Free Page B

in five years and just knowing Bill had my phone number made me feel defiled.
    William Edwin Lynley was four years my senior. He swept me off my feet with his easy smile and bedroom eyes. He made me laugh. He taught me how to love. Then he taught me how to be stupid. I trusted him without question. We honeymooned in Carmel at the Marriott Hotel and then set up housekeeping in the little community of Montclair in the East Bay Area.
    Our first year together was heaven. The second year was purgatory, the third, hell. His insurance practice made enough for me to go to law school without having to take a part-time job, and his periodic traveling gave me the solid blocks of time I needed to study. Bill said he didn’t want me to worry about money.
    I believed him when he said he just needed me to sign a few contracts he worked on because his fiduciary responsibility as a consultant might give him a conflict of interest. To my credit—I was attending law school after all—I pointed out that my involvement could be seen as a violation of client trust. I ignored all the signs that he was lying to me because more than anything I wanted to believe him. So, to my shame, I accepted his lame explanations and signed. When the California Insurance Commissioner caught up to him, Bill gave him me. He couldn’t testify against me as my husband, but with my signatures on contracts, he didn’t need to. He and the great lawyer he retained told me that if I pleaded no contest, I wouldn’t have to do any time. That was before I had a change of judges. Five years ago, when my sentence came down, all my dreams came crashing around me. I looked past the bailiff to catch Bill’s eyes. He shrugged and walked out the courtroom door.
    That was the last time I saw Bill.

CHAPTER FOUR
    I went upstairs, shoved yesterday’s mail to the other side of my bed, and lifted up the comforter to uncover the edge of the frame. On my knees, I reached under, feeling rather than seeing, remembering rather than feeling.
    I jerked my hand back with a small cry of pain. A splinter. It figured. I sucked my finger, then with both hands pulled out the small cherry wood chest. It had been months since I felt the need to go through its contents. It contained remnants from a life I’d walked away from years before. Pushing aside mementos and my parole papers, I removed a small brass key and returned the chest to its nesting place.
    I looked up at my bed clock to check the time. If I hurried, I could make it to the bank. Otherwise, I’d have to wait until Monday.
    With five minutes to closing, I strode past a visibly annoyed security guard and walked over to the cluster of desks on the right. There were at least eight other last-minute visitors winding their way along a red rope to the tellers.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said to the young blond who tried to ignore me as she tapped out commands on her computer.
    â€œWe’re closed. Our system is down.”
    I sat anyway. “Not a problem. I just want access to my safe-deposit box—not your system.”
    At that, she looked me in the eye with a less than convincing show of regret and pointed to the clock. “Sorry, the safe-deposit center closes at two thirty on Saturdays—almost a half hour ago.”
    â€œWait, I’ve been here after two thirty before, and as long as I was in before three, I got access.”
    â€œNew rules.” She shook her head with fake sympathy.
    â€œNew rules? Well, unless you want to be even later getting home, I suggest you signal the bank manager to come over here and give me access to my box. Never mind. I’ll call him over myself.”
    She clicked out an extension on the phone. I couldn’t help staring at her one-inch fire-red nails with delicate yellow roses painted on the tips. Once again I found myself tucking my own unadorned nails out of sight.
    In prison, I mastered the art of ignoring glares. Certainly the