CHAPTER
ONE
Seymour Madison never thought he’d set foot in Somerstown again, and yet, here he was.
The city was too big, too busy, and he’d always found it suffocating. He’d barely been here for twenty-four hours, and he was already over it. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. He longed for open fields and starry skies, fresh air with the sweet scent of wildflowers and lush trees, and the quiet hum of crickets chirping.
Somerstown was crap.
Yes, there was more greenery here than the average city, but it was hard to appreciate it with the suffocating grip of steel and glass everywhere. The thrum of traffic punctuated by the occasional siren made his head hurt, the air was obnoxiously thick, and Seymour was certain his skin was about to crawl off his bones.
It was absolute and totalcrap.
His mother had moved them several states away to a trailer in the country when Seymour was a kid, and he’d grown up with quite the affinity for nature and an equally strong dislike for urban settings. He didn’t have many memories of living here,but the tension washing over him in waves only reinforced the knots twisting up in his gut.
Said knots had been there since he first made the decision to drive back here, and they hadn’t let up for a moment. It was difficult for him to explain, but there was something about living out in the country that made him feel free. Here in the city, he was tiny and trapped and it was hard to breathe.
Fuck.
Even the city cemetery was denied any sense of tranquility, as it was framed with iron and brick. The hum of the bustling world was impossible to escape, though Seymour suspected his discomfort was due in part to the fact he was standing at the grave of a man he’d never met.
His father.
It was the only reason he’d come back to Somerstown—to sign papers and pay what little respect he could.
The grass hadn’t yet grown back over the freshly dug hole, and there was no headstone. No one had left any flowers either. There was only a plastic marker with scribbly handwriting:
Thaddeus C. Carver
Seymour wasn’t sure what to feel.
Nothing?
Something?
Still, there was a small tug in his chest, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it. He was sad, and he had no idea why.
When his mother passed away a few years ago, he had mourned her because she’d been a great mom and an even better friend. From impromptu indoor water gun fights to ordering late night takeout after having a bad day at school, there had been nobetter person. He’d loved her so much, and his world had been a bit darker since losing her.
He knew theCstood for Clancy, his father’s preferred name, or so his mother had always told him. She hadn’t said much else about him except he hadn’t wanted to be a dad and that was why they’d left the city right after Seymour was born. She’d insisted Clancy was a good man, but Seymour wasn’t so sure.
After all, how good could he be if he didn’t want to stick around and step up as a parent?
Maybe that’s what Seymour mourned.
Not the person, but the lost potential of a relationship he never got to have.
A rustle in the grass drew Seymour’s attention behind him, and he caught a glimpse of a thin blond man moving through what appeared to be an older section of the cemetery a few yards away.
The graves there were covered in debris, some of the headstones cracked or even toppled over, and clearly none of them had received much care in a very long time. This area boasted the cemetery’s singular tree, a giant oak that offered shade but was also no doubt responsible for the clutter of leaves and branches below.
The man was carrying a white five-gallon bucket. He kneeled before a thin headstone with a small ornate vase, carefully brushing away a few twigs and leaves from around the base. Fuzzy green moss had nearly consumed every inch of the granite, and it was impossible to read a single word of the engraving.
Seymour watched as the man pulled out sponges, a brush, and some towels from the bucket. There was a big spray bottle filled with a pink liquid. The items seemed dry, and yet the man was somehow able to splash water all over the headstone from a full bucket.
Maybe he’d kept some of that stuff in a bag.
Also, a five gallon bucket full of water would be pretty heavy, and the man had toted it over there as if it weighed nothing.
