The Glass House Read Online Free Page A

She’d been told to report any change—and this was a change.
    She withdrew the cell phone she’d hidden in the shoe box in the recesses of her cupboard and stepped outside.
    She’d only used the thing a few times before, but she remembered the instructions the woman with the southern accent had given her and entered the fourteen digits that corresponded to the date and prepared to wait—she’d been told a connection would take time. It had in her previous calls.
    But this call was answered before the first ring. There was an odd background hum. A cool male voice said, “Yes?”
    â€œIt’s Viola,” Sora said. “Something’s happening to Viola.”
    â€œOkay,” the cool voice said, then repeated itself: “Okay.”
    Sora didn’t like the voice. It was somehow neutral, way too neutral, too cool, but before she could say anything—before she could ask where the woman with the southern accent who answered all her previous calls was—the line went dead, and the cool voice was no more.

5
WJ
    WILLIAM JENNINGS CONNELLY COOLLY POCKETED what he thought of as his “special” cell phone. Good, very good, he thought. The boy was still bound and asleep as anyone with that kind of sedation in his system should be.
    William Jennings Connelly knew a lot about sedation—a lot. His first company patented and marketed a totally unique approach to sedation, and even after he sold the company he kept a large supply of its secret products. With the money he made from the sale of the sedation company he posted bail and then paid for the defence funds for three of the world’s most notorious computer hackers. The four of them went into business together. He supplied the money and they taught him an eccentric new approach to systems integration.
    He took out the phone, put it on vibrate as he saw his conductor enter the wings. He pulled back his long grey hair and snapped an elastic band around his ponytail. He shook his head to splay the lengthy grey strands across his back then stared out at the audience. As he did he slid his fingers across the well-oiled surface of his Andrea Amati cello and yet again sensed the ancient mystery within. An Andrea Amati cello was even rarer than a Stradivarius violin—and it, if not its mystery, belonged to him. To him, William Jennings Connelly. Well, not William JenningsConnelly anymore. Now that his parents were safely in the caressing arms of dementia, the world knew him only as WJ—just WJ.
    It took a lot of money to control personal information—De Beers money, Sung family money—but he had done it, and now he was just WJ to anyone and everyone who wanted to know. And they could search and search but they’d never find anything but those two initials. WJ was him—period.
    His conductor entered, accepted the audience’s applause, then stepped on the podium. He raised a baton and all twelve members of the chamber ensemble readied themselves.
    The audience closed their programs and stopped rustling.
    A moment of silence. Then, the conductor brought down his baton—and they played as one intricate, interlocking thing.
    As the music rose, WJ looked around him. He was more pleased with the aural than the visual of the ensemble. In fact they were, on the whole, an odd-looking lot. He perhaps the oddest. His sinewy six foot four inch frame and grey hair down to the middle of his back drew many an audience member’s eyes, but not as many as the pretty Chinese girl who played second violin—or was she Korean? He’d never spoken to her—or for that matter to any of them except to say hello and compliment them on their playing. He wondered if any of them suspected that it was his money that paid their salaries. Then he wondered if there were any female Chinese gymnasts who were also accomplished string players—a Chinese gymnast violin player, that would be perfect. He wondered if