Borderline by Allan Stratton Read Free Book Online Page A

I’m dying to know, but I can’t ask. If I do, Marty’ll know that Andy hasn’t told me. And why hasn’t he, if we’re best friends? My skin goes clammy. If I don’t know Andy, who do I know?
    â€œYeah,” I cover. “He hides stuff real well.”
    Marty scratches himself. “I’d be shaken up too, if I was him. Andy’s always looked up to his dad. You know his mom’s taking pills?”
    â€œSad,” I say, like it’s old news.
    Andy bursts out of the cottage. “We’re good to go.”
    Marty and I jump up. “Great!” But I’m thinking, What’s going on, pal? What’s wrong with your parents?
    The sun’s down. The sky’s filled with a gray light, stray clouds lit from beneath in dull oranges, pinks, and purples.
    Andy takes his place behind the wheel. Marty hopsaboard and takes the seat beside him, as the key turns in the ignition. I push off and take a seat behind.
    â€œHermit Island, here we come,” Andy whoops.
    â€œAye, aye, Captain,” Marty echoes.
    We edge into the dark.

Nine
    T he guys make jokes as we skim through the water. I don’t catch much over the noise of the engine, but I make sure to smile and give a thumbs-up whenever they turn around to see how I’m doing.
    The breeze bites my skin. I huddle into myself, and watch the lights glimmering in the dark river air: Twinkles from roads and towns along the mainland, from cottages dotting the shore and ringing the maze of islands that swallow us up. Beams from boat lamps, too, navigating the channels: Sailboats, fishing boats, cabin cruisers, each with its own horn, its own bell, its own jumble of laughter, music, and engines.
    I’m lost in the feel and the night of it. But Andy hasa map in his head from a lifetime of Thousand Island summers. “We’re back in American waters,” he says. Most of the cottages here are dark, boarded up. “These ones are owned by millionaires from the deep South who only come up for a week or two each summer to beat the heat.”
    We near a patch of tree-lined cliffs. Andy slows down and steers us between two walls of rock. We follow the wall on the right, then turn left and enter a stretch of water surrounded by five large islands. Andy cuts the engine. We drift forward with the current. It’s quiet here, only the sound of distant echoes, and the light waves that lap against our boat and the islands’ shores. Dark, too. No lights except our boat lamp, the stars, and the moon, which shimmer over the rippling water.
    â€œThis circle of islands belongs to the Stillman family,” Andy says. “They’re from Tennessee, I think. Each island has a master cottage, more like a mansion, with guest houses and outbuildings, all facing the outer river. A few years ago, old Mr. Stillman blew his brains out. His kids and grandkids have stayed away ever since.”
    I shiver. Is it the breeze?
    Andy raises his arm and points. “There she is,” he whispers. “Straight ahead, middle of the circle.”
    Hermit Island floats toward us out of the dark.
    At first, it’s hard to make out, dwarfed by the Stillmans’ islands surrounding it. But as we near, I see the shape of a bank of pine trees a couple of hundred yards long. Nearer still, the boat lamp lights up a ghostly dock wobbling out from the shore, the rotten end collapsed into the water. There’s a patch of sand to the right, with a large weathered sign:
    Â 
    PRIVATE PROPERTY! NO TRESPASSING!
    Â 
    â€œAre you sure it’s okay to be here?” I ask.
    â€œYou mean the sign?” Andy chuckles. “Like anyone’s around to care.”
    Which doesn’t exactly answer my question.
    Andy guides the boat to the dock. “Holler if you see Stillman’s ghost,” Marty jokes. “I picture bits of brain, maybe an eyeball, floating around what’s left of his skull.”
    We moor the boat