He heard the beep-beep-beep of the washer, went out to the porch and put her clothes into the dryer, then returned to the computer and his search for Missing persons, Santa Barbara and vicinity.

Nothing.

He widened the search to Coastal California.

This time, when the moan began, he was on his feet and moving fast. “Elle,” he called, “Elle!”

She was faster with the scream, too. By the time he flipped on the overhead, she was up and shrieking like a soul clutched tightly in a monster’s claws. That pale face marked by bruises, those wide, staring eyes, that hopeless terror...

This time Adam touched her shoulder.

She smacked at him, a good solid fist thump on his forearm.

Then she was awake. She stopped screaming, thank God, but she was breathing hard, staring at him, haunted, disillusioned, broken. Like him.

“I’m okay,” she said.

“You don’t have to say it if you’re not.”

“I’m okay as long as I’m awake. But I can’t...” She started to droop again. “Each time I go to sleep, he comes at me again.”

“You’re dreaming.” He didn’t believe that. She was reliving. He knew. He understood. The monsters came at night for him, too, and when they captured him, sleep was nothing but a desperate hope.

“I want to scream, want to, but he chokes me, and the screams build up inside, and then it all comes out, and I’m not there anymore. I’m in the dark alone and... I’m so afraid.”

“I know.” He kept his hand on her shoulder.

“Would you stay with me? Sit here for a while? Until I go to sleep.” With that, she fell asleep.

He figured he’d better sit a little longer. He pulled his book out of the bedside drawer, a well-worn copy of Good Omens, and read a couple of chapters while keeping his hand on her shoulder. But the search for a missing person waited, so when she seemed to be peacefully sleeping, he lifted his hand and tiptoed away. This time, he did not turn off the light.

He seated himself at the desk, although he didn’t pull his chair in, and searched for persons missing from vessels offshore.

Nothing.

He supposed this figured. Some guy had choked Elle almost to death, flung her into the water and was satisfied she was dead. Probably not a husband. A spouse would report her missing in case her body washed up on shore and give some bullshit reason she had fingerprints on her throat. But if it was a random guy, a date or an unlucky (for her) encounter with someone who enjoyed inflicting pain and violence on another person, no report would be filed.

Maybe she’d run into a serial killer.

If only she could tell him who she was.

Maybe she didn’t want to. Victims were embarrassed by the violence inflicted on them.