The Sound of Glass Read Online Free PDF Page A

carefully placed the toy on the floor, tucked against the wall to the left of the opening.
    “You don’t have to, Owen. I promise to drive carefully so that it doesn’t get broken.”
    He looked at her again with magnified eyes. “It belongs to theold Owen. I’m not going to be him anymore when we get to South Carolina.”
    Tears pricked the back of her eyes. He
was
wise, but she knew he was sensitive about that word and its connection to owls. Instead, she nodded and reached past him to close the little access door for the last time.
    She hugged him, feeling his small bones beneath her hands, noticing how his jeans were too short because he was growing too fast for her. She hadn’t bought new ones because she didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that he was getting older. Loralee kissed the top of his head, promising herself that they would stop at a mall before they reached South Carolina. It was important to Loralee that Owen’s sister didn’t think his mother wasn’t taking good care of him.
    “It’s all going to be fine,” she said. She made a mental note to add one more thing to her
Journal of Truths
.
Sometimes it’s necessary to tell a lie when the truth will break a heart.
    They walked out of the house together, neither one of them turning around, as if they both knew that some good-byes were forever. After making sure that Owen was buckled securely into the backseat, Loralee put the SUV in drive and made one more note to add yet another newfound truth to her journal.
    Sometimes bravery can be just another face of desperation.



chapter 2
    MERRITT
    T
he auto-ignition temperature of any material—including paper—is a function of its composition, volume, density, and shape, as well as of how long it’s exposed to high temperature.
I remembered Cal telling me that once as the reason he hated the title of Ray Bradbury’s
Fahrenheit 451
: because it was misleading. I repeated the words to myself one more time before opening my eyes.
    I wasn’t sure how I’d ended up sitting on the leather sofa in Mr. Williams’s office, or when Ms. Difloe had entered with a tall glass of water, its sides weeping with sweat. And then I remembered my impromptu confession and how I’d started gasping for breath.
    I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering gentle hands leading me to the sofa, and I felt my shoulders hunch with embarrassment. My eyes felt raw and swollen, as if I’d been crying for the last one thousand miles, but I knew I hadn’t. I was an expert at keepingall my emotions inside. Had been for years. But there was something in the way Mr. Williams had looked at me, something that reminded me of my father and the little girl I’d once been before everything changed.
    Ms. Difloe placed the cold tumbler in my hands and I brought the glass to my lips, dripping water down my chin because I couldn’t steady my fingers. Mr. Williams brought out a pressed linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and as he gave it to me I noticed his embroidered monogram in navy in the corner. It told me everything I needed to know about Mrs. Williams, and I felt oddly comforted.
    “Thank you,” I said, dabbing at my chin but ignoring my eyes, as if I could hide my tears by blinking them away.
    Ms. Difloe quietly exited the room while Mr. Williams sat patiently in a pulled-up chair that matched the nail-head couch I was propped up on. He looked at me expectantly, and I thought about how Southerners were supposed to be so slow about everything, and I suspected he’d sit there waiting indefinitely until I finally spoke.
    After taking another sip from the glass, I put it on the side table on a delicate lace coaster that I also imagined Mrs. Williams had strategically placed to protect the antique furniture in her husband’s office.
    I clutched the handkerchief, watching my knuckles whiten as I tightened my fist around it, then looked up in surprise when Mr. Williams spoke first.
    “When we talked on the phone, you said