A sudden noise snapped her to attention. She hunkered down while still trying to trace the source of the sound. A shadow moved from the road toward her location.
Suddenly, Clarissa tensed up. She’d assumed that whoever came into the cemetery must be the vandal. But how many other people passed through a cemetery at night? What if this unknown silhouette was someone else, like a homeless person? Or a drug dealer? Or a Satanist coming to sacrifice a cat or something? And what if it was the vandal, but instead of a punk high school kid, the perpetrator was part of a gang? These possibilities sent a jolt of fear through her, weakening her righteous anger. Clarissa ducked lower.
The figure drew nearer. She could tell now this midnight visitor to the cemetery was tall, probably over six feet. Its gait was slow. The shadow passed the gazebo, on towards the Japanese Maple tree. Clarissa’s heart beat faster. She shifted to the side of the gazebo to get a better view. The figure approached Brandon’s grave and stopped. Clarissa pulled out her phone. Her plan if confronted with the perpetrator was always a little fuzzy. Taking a picture would at least arm her with some evidence to present to the police and perhaps scare the vandal into retirement, or, at least, some other delinquent pursuit.
The mysterious figure knelt in front of Brandon’s headstone. Clarissa summoned her courage and leaped to her feet, abandoning her cover.
“What are you doing?” she screamed, her adrenaline taking over.
As Clarissa hustled toward the silhouette, she snapped picture after picture with her phone. The mysterious figure let out a yelp and fell to the ground, crawling away in a pitiful backward motion. He reached into his pocket and shone a light on her. She shielded her eyes from the brightness.
“Clarissa? Is that you?” the figure asked in a surprised voice.
She stepped closer, staring at the unknown visitor, who lowered the light to his own face. Damien Bronson. She should have known.
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