At times, it looked more like a tomb than a maze. And the weight of living next to it had taken its toll.

But Wayne knew better. Knew he was more than just tied to The Hedges. They marked a very powerful period of his life. When, at age thirty-six, he started living like an artist. Phase Two, he liked to call it. He hadn’t only built The Hedges in a suffocating haze of sadness; the labyrinth had become Goblin’s most lucrative tourist attraction by far. Aside from the two men he had fashioned topiaries of at the city gates, Wayne Sherman was slated to become Goblin’s most celebrated citizen.

Wayne Sherman was as beloved a Gobliner as it got.

And all he had to do was keep the finish line secret. Forever.

He wiped the lemonade from his lips.

It’d be like getting struck by lightning twice. The chances of that little girl…

But he had to go. He had to leave right now.

So he started. He put himself in motion. He grabbed a bag.

And what would happen to The Hedges? Would they grow over? Would the walls of every path eventually touch in the middle? Would it swallow itself like that?

Wayne knew it would. He knew that one day it would become just a giant solid block of green. He smiled sadly at the idea of someone trying to maintain them.

He wouldn’t stand a chance.

At the front door he stopped to peer outside. The rain was ridiculous. The girl couldn’t be too far yet. But the police, once they got word of what was out here, wouldn’t be long.

He imagined he saw blinking red and blue lights. But it was only the words on the sign itself, the hedges, seen through the falling water.

He remembered painting that sign. Remembered wondering if anybody would come out.

Shit.

The Goblin Police were serious, indeed.

Wayne packed his things, wondering why he never built himself an escape path. In case the winding ways got to be too much, when the bushes simply felt too tall to conquer.

A safe way out of this maze.

2

By the time Margot reached the Goblin Police she was so wet that the receptionist thought she might have fallen into the Blackwater River.

“I have a criminal for you,” Margot announced.

The receptionist, a small man of forty, tilted his head as though Margot had made a high-pitched whistle sound just out of his range. Then he saw she was serious.

“A criminal, you say?”

“You’re already taking too long,” she said, looking past the man to the officer behind a tall desk. The Goblin Police were easy to spot: long faces, long arms, sunglasses. And skin that looked more like putty than flesh. “He’s gonna try to get away.”