Seeders: A Novel by A. J. Colucci Read Free Book Online Page A

backpacking through Nova Scotia. He gave them work and a place to live. Some were grateful but most took advantage of his kindness. He finally gave up on civilization.”
    They walked in silence, until he said, “Do you want to know what happened?”
    She knew he was referring to George’s death and stopped abruptly. “Yes. I do.”
    He paused beside her. “Your father jumped off the cliffs at High Peak.”
    For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then she nodded and continued their walk. “Were drugs involved?”
    He shrugged. “I’m afraid the body was too decomposed. It was caught among the rocks and in rough water for days until we found him.”
    She fell silent again.
    “Your father was tormented. Some people are just made that way through no fault of their own. He was a good man, Isabelle.”
    “Please don’t make excuses.” She glanced around the woods where George had spent half his life and wondered what kind of demons could have tormented him into such a tragic ending. She stared at the trees, silent witnesses, and whispered, “Perhaps he should have left the heads hanging.”

 
    CHAPTER 5
    THE TRAIL ENDED , and the woods opened to a vast clearing of unbroken sky. In the distance, the house stood under yellow sunlight, surrounded by tall fields of ryegrass that blew like waves in the wind.
    Right away, Sean ran up the path. Isabelle didn’t try to stop him.
    From where she stood, the house was lovely. It was a grand two-story farmhouse, made of rustic fieldstone and white clapboard, with pillars and porches, a lot of glass doors and windows, all under a blue slate roof. There was a path of gravel that stretched toward the house, intersecting at the halfway point with another trail, a sweeping uphill climb to the cliffs at High Peak.
    Isabelle wasn’t going to think about the cliffs. She stared at the house and felt a flicker of joy that eased the painful news of her father. It was an extremely personal moment coming back to her childhood home and she resisted the urge to run up the path, straining to slow her pace. Bonacelli could sense her eagerness and told her it would be fine if she walked ahead. She did, and was soon well past him.
    As she got closer, the house wasn’t quite what she remembered. It was large by anyone’s standards, but Isabelle had thought of her home as a castle. There were significant signs of decay—missing tiles, collapsing roof, splintered window frames, crumbling chimneys—but none of that mattered. It felt good to be home.
    Luke and Monica were on the fieldstone patio, squatting by a pit of ash the size of a child’s swimming pool, poking a heap of charred remains with a stick. Isabelle called out to Luke, but he didn’t notice, or at least didn’t respond.
    The front of the house had tall, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the fields of rye and the distant woods beyond. There were three sets of glass doors with entrances to the laboratory, kitchen, and library, and in between were small rock gardens where her mother had grown wildflowers and strawberries. Nothing remained but some twisted stems that lay brown and withered in the dirt, but there were a few blossoming weeds, tiny buds of white and yellow.
    Isabelle slid open the door to the library and a musty odor struck her senses. She stepped into the dimly lit room. It was enormous with a twenty-foot ceiling, the walls covered in dark cherrywood. In the shadows of the sitting area were overstuffed sofas and chairs upholstered in a worn floral print of burgundy and olive.
    She pushed open the drapes, letting in sunlight and illuminating years of dust that swirled and hovered over the furniture. Memories flooded back, yet at the same time the house was a stranger. She didn’t remember the dreary bleakness of the place. The Persian rugs were thick with grime and the furniture smelled moldy from salt and dampness. She recalled her father, always practical, had suggested white wicker but her mother