Tucked into the shadowy gap lay a crushed blue plastic bottle cap. And just beneath it, pressed deep into the mud, was a fresh tread impression from a heavy trail shoe—pointing directly toward Emma’s name. “Sylvia,” Daniel said, his voice dropping. “Look at this.” She leaned over the stone, peering down. “That’s fresh. Made last night or early this morning.”
Daniel looked up, sweeping his eyes across the empty cemetery. For eighteen months, he had felt completely alone in his grief. Now, a sudden, piercing awareness washed over him. Someone was sneaking into the grounds, dumping water on her grave in the dead of night, and standing over her headstone. “The main gates are locked at eight every evening,” Daniel said slowly.