In all the times I’ve visited the Spinney, I’ve never gone there at night before. The air is cold and sharp as we cross the meadows, and the dark trees loom up before us.

“It’s like the Dimwood,” Fina whispers.

“It totally is,” I say, imagining screeching banshees circling overhead and grinning ogres waiting in the shadows to snatch us up.

At the exact same time, we reach for each other’s hand.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask. “We can go back if you want.”

Fina hesitates for just a second, glancing toward the forest. Then she shakes her head. “If Jack and Sarah did it, so can we.”

So we duck under the barbed wire.

Even though I know this forest by heart, we go slow and walk soft, so we don’t give ourselves away. We don’t dare use Fina’s flashlight or even our phones, because if my pen pal does come, they’d be able to spot the light from a mile off.

An owl hoots in a tree overhead and Fina startles. She grips my hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not really the Dimwood. There’s no evil hobgoblin king here.”

“Right,” Fina says. “Right.”

When we get to the glade, I return the book to the sycamore hollow. Then we have to figure out where to hide. There’s a mostly full moon tonight, but it’s cloudy, too. Every time a cloud crosses over the moon, we can barely see anything other than the outline of the trees. But when the sky is clear, we can make out the branches and rocks and leaves, all sketched in silver.

We decide to sit behind Throne Rock. It’s close enough to the hollow that, even if it’s cloudy, we can still make out some detail. And it’s big enough to hide the two of us.

Fina takes out her binoculars, some Twizzlers, and a big bag of Donitas—these crunchy ring-shaped Mexican snacks her mom lets her have in her lunchbox on Fridays. We each take one, crunch into it, shush each other, then giggle, then shush each other again. Then we reach for more.

Fina loops the binoculars around her neck. “Let’s talk suspects,” she says. “You said it must be someone who knew your gram really well. Who could that be?”

“Mom, Dad, Lily,” I say. “Some of the villagers. There’s Old Joe and Older Joe and Gloria and Ruth. Oh, and then there’s—”

The instant it comes to me, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.

“The flowers,” I murmur.

“Flowers?” Fina asks. “Is that the name of another villager?”

“No,” I say. “No, they were in the graveyard. The morning after Halloween, someone left my gram flowers. And I’m pretty sure I know who it was.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Fina asks.