The next night, a cold drizzle coated everything with a fine layer of moisture that made everything slick, including my grip on my stake. My boots cracked only slightly over the gravel path, the ground too wet to roll loose stones under my feet. The night held quiet except for the occasional rattle of tree leaves overhead and a car passing in the distance. I swept my gaze around headstones, cherub and angel statues, and hedges as I went, searching for any sign of movement.

And trying ...