ONCE ZSÓKE HAD THE information from the Arcturus, finding Elladora Varela was ridiculously easy. The ocean currents could have dropped her only on a limited area of Big Sur shoreline, and on a hill above those beaches a tiny speck of a town existed: Gothic, California.

A moment of internet research took Zsóke to the neighborhood social-media page where the residents of Gothic posted updated information about the continued Highway 1 road closure, warned of area cougar sightings and reminded each other that the recent storm had created a lush growth of grass and brush that would burn all too well during the fire season.

Caution should be taken.

Luckily for Zsóke, the posts also churned with gossip about the newest celebrity at the Live Oak Restaurant and Inn and buzzed about the town outcast who had driven up the main street with a young, heavily bruised woman.

The outcast’s name was Adam Ramsdell, but no one knew the woman’s name or where she came from.

Amid vehement denials from Adam’s apparent friends, speculation ran rampant that Adam himself had administered the beating. Other people of a less vicious mindset offered a claim that the young woman had come in with the storm and the aftermath of fog and that she was a lost soul, which was one of the area’s weird and persistent superstitions.

Zsóke leaned back in the office chair.

It would appear Stephen was right. But who would have thought that that delicate little scrap of a woman would survive both Stephen’s fury and a stormy night in the Pacific Ocean?

And why hadn’t she called the police about her assault?

Zsóke speculated that, rather than bring charges against the well-respected Stephen, she had chosen to conceal herself, at least until she knew whether he would live or die.

A good plan, but doomed to failure.

Now, how to get into this small, close-knit village without being spotted?

Another scan of the posts gave the answer.

Really, people shouldn’t put their entire lives online. That made a distraction so easy to create.

Elladora shouldn’t have chosen to shelter with this Adam Ramsdell.

Because now they both would have to die.

26

THE NEXT MORNING, a knock on the back screen door brought Adam’s and Elle’s heads around to the open door.

A uniformed man stood there, a police officer, a man in his thirties holding a computer tablet and wearing a serious expression. “Hi, Adam.”

A cop. Elle took a deep breath to still the sudden wild thumping of her heart.

Adam put his hand over hers. Softly he said, “You’ve done nothing wrong. Maybe he has information for us. Probably he’s here for some reason unrelated to you or me. Dave’s a friend. He probably came for breakfast.”

Just as quietly, she said, “I hurt the man with a shiny pole. I’m sure I did.”