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This was never supposed to happen.

Lowell was never supposed to die, was never supposed to make a wish. Was never supposed to know that the Wish Garden even existed.

In the light of morning, through the spotless glass panes of the kitchen doors, the gardens at Hemlock Hill looked so serene. The Wish Garden had been responsible for so many blessings in the Hargroves’ lives that it was easy to forget it was capable of doing awful things as well.

Hart looked down at his phone, scrolling the social media accounts of some of his old friends, checking to see if they’d mentioned anything about the party last night. Just a few posts about a wild time, about being ready to cliff-dive in Acapulco after jumping into the pond, but only a few things about how the party ended. Some people attributed the pandemonium to the cops being called, and a rush to avoid arrest. Some people described a fight breaking out, alluding to vague, mild violence. But no one mentioned Lowell. The closest thing to a comment about him came from Kelsey, Mason’s girlfriend, asking anyone if they remembered that weird clown with paint on his face and a magic trick where he pulled roses out of his sleeve.

It seemed no one had recognized Lowell, or remembered much of what happened.

Hart slipped his phone into his back pocket and darted his gaze to Heather, standing at the glass-paned door. They were too far from the hedge maze to see it, but Heather gazed in its direction as though she were looking at Lowell’s impaled body just beyond the glass. “What are we going to do?”

Her voice was hoarse, her throat scratched raw from crying all night. After Lowell’s death, Hart’s main priority was to get Heather out of there. He’d stayed with her in her room, listening to her wail uncontrollably until she lost her voice. He stayed long after she finally fell into a fitful sleep. But Hart hadn’t been able to close his eyes himself.

“We should call Dad,” Heather said. She bit the nail of her ring finger, but her nails were already chewed down to the quick.

“We can’t call Dad.”

Heather finally pulled her gaze away from the garden to flash her red-rimmed eyes at Hart. She was way past worrying about a parent’s wrath. “He’ll know what to do.”

Hart shook his head. “He’ll freak.”

“ I’m freaking,” Heather said, voice cracking. She pressed her forehead against the glass. No one knew there was a hedge maze in the garden unless they were told where to look. Which meant that no one in the world could know about the body that stood dead in the center of it. Except for the Hargrove twins. Heather wanted to change that, but Hart needed more time to think.

“What if somebody recognized him?” Heather asked.

“Nobody recognized him.”

“The police could come looking…”

Hart closed his eyes and shook his head, but he knew that what his sister really needed right now was reassurance. She was pulling out every scenario so that they wouldn’t be blindsided. So that Hart could come up with a solution that would make her feel better. Safe.

“Okay, let’s say the police come,” he said, obliging her. “So what if they do find him? They’ll see that no man killed him. They won’t have any way to explain it, but they’ll see for certain that it wasn’t you or me or any human being that did that to him.”

Heather swallowed and took a deep breath, seeming to accept this rationalization. “I’m starting to think Lowell had the right idea.”

Hart turned to his sister, waiting for her to continue. In a small voice she said, “Maybe we’re better off without the Wish Garden.”

“What?” Hart said. Out of all the things his twin could’ve said, he’d never expected it to be this. Heather was practically addicted to the Wish Garden. She made more wishes in a week than Hart made in a year. “Why would you say that?”

Heather matched the incredulous look in Hart’s eye. “You were there,” she said. “You saw what happened. The garden is dangerous.”

It was what he’d been telling her for years, and yet, right now, Hart’s instinct was to refute that very statement. “Lowell shouldn’t have—”

“Listen to yourself,” Heather said, voice as low as a whisper, but forceful enough to cut Hart off. “The garden killed someone last night.”

There was nothing he could say to that, so he remained silent for a moment. Heather was right, the garden was dangerous. “But it’s not like we can get rid of it,” he said.

Heather exhaled and went back to looking out the door, seemingly lost in thought until she circled back around to her original point. “What are we going to do? We can’t just leave him there to rot.”

Hart sidled up to his sister and gave her shoulder what he hoped was a warm, reassuring squeeze. “I’m going to take care of it,” he said.