It’s spotless.

I turn to him. He’s still fanning himself with the rolled-up magazine from the shock of seeing me. “What?” he says.

“You weren’t sick?”

“Yeah, I was. Of course I was. Why would I lie about that?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, this bathroom is sparkly clean, and you don’t strike me as the domestic type. Plus, you didn’t have any cleaning supplies, dirty paper towels—”

“Okay, Sherlock, you got me,” he sneers. “I just didn’t want to go on a crummy hike today. What about you? Why are you here?”

“I twisted my ankle,” I say, reaching down to massage it, though it really doesn’t hurt anymore.

“You didn’t want to go, either,” he says, collapsing on a leather couch. “Face it. You see it, too.”

I stare at him. Is it possible that Hugo, stupid, idiotic Hugo, could see some of the things I see? “See what?”

“Angela and Justin. Justin and Angela.” When my face is just as blank as before, he says, “In lurve.”

“What?” I start to laugh. Of course this wasn’t about the ghosts. But still, I know what he’s talking about. My laughter quickly dissolves. “What would make you think that?”

“You never noticed? They’re always giving each other looks.”

“Yeah, but they’re best friends. She’s not his type. Believe me,” I say, as much to convince myself as to convince him. “I mean, I can see where you would think that, because I’ve thought it, too. But really. It’s nothing.”

He shrugs.

“Really. They’ve known each other since they were three,” I say, thinking back to the time three years ago when we’d been making out in the yearbook office for the first time and Justin said, “Angela has nothing to do with this.” How many times have I repeated that to myself over the years? She’s his best friend, and that’s it.

Angela is my closest friend. She was happy when she found out Justin and I were a couple. Happy. She bounced around and giggled like she was on bath salts. “I always thought you’d make a great couple,” she said.

“Angela has nothing to do with this,” I find myself saying.

“Huh?” Hugo’s staring at me.

I grab my backpack and step over his legs, which are sprawled out on the coffee table. “I’ve got something to do.”

“Your poor, throbbing ankle all better?” he asks with a crafty grin. When I don’t reply, he gets down on his knees and raises his hands toward the heavens. “Praise God. It’s a miracle.”

I think about kicking him in the ribs, but in the end I just ignore him and walk to the door.

“Wait. Where are you go—” he begins, but by then I’ve slammed the door.

I walk on the right side of 201 until I’m directly across from the Outfitters, then cut across the highway quickly. That way, I avoid the sound of the river. If I hear those voices, I might get cold feet. And I need to do this. I need to put an end to the questions.

I know it’s completely ridiculous. I know I’m going crazy and seeing people who aren’t real. But they feel real, as real as Justin or Angela or anyone. And even though she can’t be over there, even though it’s impossible, I need to see. I need to prove to myself that all of this—Jack, Trey, my mother—is all in my head.

In the Outfitters, it’s quiet because the buses have already departed for the day. There’s a rather large older man there in red flannel and an L.L.Bean cap, reading a hunting magazine. I clear my throat. He looks up, startled. “Hi!” I say brightly. “I, um, saw an interesting graveyard on the other bank and I was wondering if there was a way I could get across to see it?”

He says yes with the first Down East Maine accent I’ve heard in a long time: “Ayuh.” Most people in southern Maine now are from away and don’t talk like that, which is a shame because I kind of like it. “You looking to rent a kayak?”

I bite my lip. “Well … if there’s any way to stay out of the water, I’d prefer that.”

All the while, his eyes are narrowed to tiny creases. Then he says, “Yeh the Ice Guhl!”

“Um, well …”

“Imagine that, the Ice Guhl wants to stay out of the riveh. What, the riveh got yeh good?” He’s all animated, suddenly. “Well, theh a footbridge ’bout sixteen miles upstream. At put-in. Yeh have to get down the logging roads. Gets hahd cause theh not mocked.”

I think for a second before I realize he’s saying “marked.” The roads are not marked. Great.

“Oh,” I sigh. Justin and Angela have taken Monster to get to the trailhead. Not that I would have taken it without asking him. He wouldn’t have minded, but with my luck, since it’s mud season, I probably would end up stuck on a remote logging road, never to be found again.

“That kayak soundin’ betta and betta each minute, eh?” he asks. “I’d take yeh, but I’m right out straight heh.”

I don’t know what that means, but it sounds painful.

“Yeh can still rent on a thuty,” he says.

I just stare. He writes something on a piece of paper and pushes it over the counter to me. It says $30.

“Cash only,” he says. “Dough know howah wahk those credit cah thingies.”

“Is it rough? Is it hard to get across from here?” I ask, my voice rising an octave.

“Nah. Buh yeh gah to make shaw yeh get theh befuh yeh reach the Kennebec. Gets a little hahd thah.”

I dig into my pockets for the money but stop. The feeling of dread—being on the water—washes over me. I can’t do it. As much as I want to see what’s over there, I can’t. “Isn’t there anyone else who could take me?” I ask.

He shakes his head, just as a voice calls out behind me, “I can.” I whirl around and Hugo is standing there, already holding a kayak paddle and grinning. He looks at the old man behind the counter and, in this most atrocious combination of Down East Maine and British Cockney, says, “It’s wicked calm, taint that right, govnah?”

I don’t care if he’s going to help me. I still have to smack him.

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?”