Dead River by Cyn Balog

Author:Cyn Balog [Cyn Balog]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General Fiction Suspense
ISBN: 0385741588
Google: V9nJDZReaA0C
Amazon: B009QJMY82
Barnesnoble: B009QJMY82
Goodreads: 16085333
Publisher: Delacorte
Published: 2013-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Hugo suddenly transforms into Mr. Athletic as he takes the kayak and fastens on his life vest.

“Do you really know how to kayak?” I ask, skeptical, as I pull a vest over my jacket and fasten the strap of the helmet under my chin.

He snorts. “Well, let’s just say I have more experience than you.”

I glare at him.

“I’ve been kayaking since I was nine,” he mutters. “Get in the boat. And don’t do anything stupid like falling out, okay? Keep your arms and legs inside the kayak at all times. And enjoy your ride.” The last part sounds like he’s a flight attendant.

I get in. The kayak is even mushier and more unbalanced than the raft. A few prickles at the back of my neck seem to be telling me to turn around, go to the cabin, and watch What Not to Wear. But it’s nothing too alarming. I can do this. I need to do this.

“What, exactly, about old cemeteries sounds good to you?” he asks as he sits in front of me.

“I don’t know. I like the history, I guess,” I say, which is the truth. When I was in third grade, we went on a class trip to Boston and I spent most of that time walking around the Granary Burying Ground. Most of the class went to the harbor, but my father asked the teacher to make an exception for me, because I was “afraid of the water.” And back then, I was, because my father had told me so many horror stories about it—that drownings happened all the time, that there were creatures with tentacles that could pull you under, et cetera. So I spent three hours hanging out with Sam Adams and John Hancock and a bunch of other dead people. It was interesting, but I was disappointed when the rest of my class showed up and not one of them had been maimed by an octopus.

Hugo nods and pats his camera bag. “I do, too. Wanted to go across. Thought I could take some pictures. Guess that means we have something in common, huh?”

I snort. The horror.

We push off and immediately follow the flow, but then Hugo begins to paddle. He does a good job of keeping up with the current at first, and even I’m impressed. I never figured that the spindle-limbed guy would have much athletic ability. Soon we’re halfway across, in the middle of the river. Hugo groans. His rhythmic motion falters a little, and he loses his grip and slows for a second. We begin to slide downstream.

“Keep going,” I call to him. “We don’t want to—”

He picks it up again. He mutters something like “I am” and some random curse word, which I’m sure is meant for me. I deserve it; I’m not helping at all, just calling out commands like a total backseat driver. I try to bite my tongue and let him do it, but then he stops again and we’re slipping farther downstream.

I can’t help it.

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