Personal Effects Read Online Free PDF Page A

couldn’t figure out the look on his face. “I’m a damn good soldier. Damn good.” I could see him laughing at himself inside his own head, even though just a bit of smile and a little huff of laughter shook loose. “But I needed orders and discipline. I needed someone to take me apart and put me back together again, the right way, to make me strong, to give me honor.” T.J. looked at me long and hard. He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Whatever else I am, or whatever else I’m ever gonna be, I needed them to make me strong enough to be that man. But you, you’re already smarter than me. And stronger, in your way — you’ve weathered Dad all by yourself. You have nothing to prove. To Dad. To me. To anyone, except maybe yourself. You’ll find your way, a way that uses your smarts, and who you are, and that doesn’t involve war.”
    T.J. put the truck back in gear before I could say anything, and I was glad, because I didn’t trust myself to speak.
    “Find something else, something that makes
you
happy.”
    My throat ached, my eyes blurred, but right then, driving down the road with T.J. behind the wheel, I wanted to just head west and keep going, away from Dad, away from T.J. having to report back, away from everything.
    I wish we had.

“S IT .” F IRST THING D AD ’ S SAID SINCE THE SINGLE QUESTION in the car.
    He yanks one of the chairs out from under the kitchen table with his foot. With my ass planted there, Dad’ll be between me and both exits from the kitchen. But I have no choice, so I sink into the chair. For the hundredth time since Pendergrast’s office, I hope I’ve read Dad’s mood right, and he’s not just recharging for round two.
    My neck’s so stiff, it might break if I turn my head, so I give up trying to read his face. Instead, I track his path around the kitchen by sound.
    Refrigerator. Sink. Cabinet. Sink. Freezer. Creak of the ice tray. Ice in a glass. Stray cubes in the sink. Clatter of empty ice tray on the counter. That cabinet opening. Twist of the screw top from the bottle. Whisper of scotch against ice. Long gulp. Silence. Crack-hiss of a can being opened. Silence. Clink of ice on glass. Smaller sip. Smacking lips. Silence. Deep breath. Silence. Movement. Then his feet are directly in front of me. I risk the pain to look up.
    “Here.” He thrusts a dish towel bundle at my chest and then motions toward my face. “Put it on that eye.”
    The bundle is clunky but dully cold, filled with some of Dad’s precious ice. I hadn’t expected that. I also hadn’t expected the soda he plunks down in front of me on the table, the can hitting the scarred Formica just a little too hard. He directs me to the can with his chin and waits for me to take a sip before he continues with his drink.
    “Thanks.” I didn’t get enough air behind it, but he doesn’t seem to take it as weak, or mocking, or anything.
    He settles into the chair next to me, stretches and shifts until he’s comfortable. Then he moves to take another sip, but pauses with the glass halfway to his mouth. I brace for it, but he just takes a nice long drink. Then the glass is on the table. He exhales and smacks his lips again. It’s a good sound. I can practically hear his muscles relaxing as the scotch does its thing.
    “Do I want to know what happened?” Dad asks.
    “Didn’t Pendergrast —?”
    “I want to hear it from you.” His eyes don’t move. Not even toward his drink.
    “Usual crap.”
    I look down so he can pick up the glass. When he doesn’t, I stare at it, watching the light filter through the scotch and ice. His hand flexes on the table. I hold my breath until he picks up the glass. I don’t exhale until it’s safely on the table again, his hands relaxed beside it.
    “If it was usual, why today?”
    “Don’t know. I guess . . .” Shit. How many times has he said,
Don’t guess. Know or shut the hell up
? “It was just too much today.”
    “And?”
    Clink of ice. Smacked