Her life is a mystery...

And forgetting the past can be deadly.

Run off the road, investigative journalist Emma Lyons awakens with no memory of who she is or what happened. And researching her own past with Deputy Liam McCourt quickly leads to a killer who wants them silenced. Branded outsiders in a sleepy Texas town full of dark secrets, can they escape an unknown threat dead set on robbing Emma of her past—and future?

SHERRI SHACKELFORD is an award-winning author of inspirational books featuring ordinary people discovering extraordinary love. A reformed pessimist, Sherri has a passion for storytelling. Her books are fast paced and heartfelt with a generous dose of humor. She loves to hear from readers at sherri@sherrishackelford.com. Visit her website at sherrishackelford.com.

Also By Sherri Shackelford

No Safe Place

Killer Amnesia

Return to Cowboy Creek

His Substitute Mail-Order Bride

Montana Courtships

Mail-Order Christmas Baby

Prairie Courtships

The Engagement Bargain

The Rancher’s Christmas Proposal

A Family for the Holidays

A Temporary Family

Cowboy Creek

Special Delivery Baby

Cowboy Creek Christmas

“Mistletoe Bride”

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Killer Amnesia

Sherri Shackelford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09760-4

KILLER AMNESIA

© 2019 Sherri Shackelford

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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Emma was more frightened than she’d ever been in her life.

Her memory was spotty at best. She was filling in the edges, but a giant blank space remained at the center. The blow to her head had left her with only random dribbles of recollection surrounding the events leading to the accident.

Who had put the envelope of photos in her overnight bag—and when? They’d been placed there after the accident, that much she knew.

Someone had been watching her and wanted her to know she was exposed.

“I’m sorry,” Liam said, his expression awash with guilt. “We were supposed to keep you safe, and we didn’t.”

“I don’t blame you. Everyone did their best. I’m here, aren’t I? I survived the accident. I survived the attack.”

She’d survived because someone out there wanted her to. He wanted her alive because he had worse things in store for her.

Her stalker was giving her sly nudges to let her know she wasn’t safe. He was letting her know there were no gaps in his memory of her.

Dear Reader,

When I first started writing, a mentor encouraged me to tape a picture of a “reader” to my computer to remind me of the most important part of the story—you. The reader is the most essential contribution to any book. Writers only provide the framework; your imagination does the rest. Now when I sit in front of my computer, I know I’m writing for Terrill, Valri, Debra E. and Trixi. I’m writing for Marnita, Bobby, Vernell and Cathy... I’m writing for you. I hope you enjoyed Liam and Emma’s journey!

I love connecting with readers and would enjoy hearing your thoughts on this story. If you’re interested in learning more about this book or others that I have written, I have more information on my website: sherrishackelford.com. I can also be reached at email: sherri@sherrishackelford.com, or at PO Box 116, Elkhorn, NE 68022.

My sincerest gratitude for being the reason I’m able to do what I love each day!

Sherri Shackelford

Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.

—Psalm 51:10

To the people who stay up later than they should to read the next page, to the people who can immediately flip to their favorite scene in their favorite book, to the people who save the last page until the next day because they’re not quite ready to let go of their new friends... To all the readers in the world, thank you! The laundry can wait; it’s time for an adventure.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

Deputy Liam McCallister was a dead man.

At least that’s what everyone back in Dallas thought. Until six months ago, he was working undercover in the Gang Unit of the Dallas Police Department. Now he was stuck in a small town directing traffic under the name Deputy McCourt. At least the US Marshals had assigned him a job in law enforcement while the district attorney wrapped up the case. They figured he was safe as long as he kept a low profile. No one from the Serpent Brotherhood would be caught dead in Redbird, Texas.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

If the Serpent Brotherhood knew they’d been infiltrated, they’d shut down their operations. This was better. Except one month had turned into six without a break in the case, and the wait was starting to get to him.

Fighting his way through the pelting downpour, Liam adjusted the flashing yellow barricades and ducked into his state-issue Chevy Tahoe. Heavy rains had washed out the road. There was no escaping Redbird, Texas, tonight.

A shock of static sounded from his police radio, and a familiar voice filled the cab.

“Unit 120,” Rose Johnson, the dispatcher, called.

Soaking wind slapped against his windshield in pounding bursts. Lightning streaked across the black sky, temporarily illuminating a bank of angry clouds.

Liam grasped the microphone and depressed the Call button. “Unit 120.”

“Single car accident on Highway 214,” the dispatcher relayed. “Personal injury. Mile-marker 37. Just beyond Brown Cattle feeders. Unit 130 is on scene. Requesting assistance. Fire and rescue en route.”

“Ten-four. Responding from County Road 12.”

Exhaustion rippled through him. He was working a double shift that had started before six this morning. Only the county sheriff along with two deputies were assigned to this area, and the three of them were spread thin.

He flipped on his flashing red lights and pulled a U-turn. A canine whimper sounded from the backseat, and Liam glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, Duchess, looks like you’re stuck with me.”

He’d discovered the animal earlier in the day wandering around the town square. The tag listed her name but no phone number. A nuisance call and a traffic stop had prevented him from reaching the county shelter before closing. Though bedraggled from being caught in the rain, the dog was well fed—too well fed. Someone must be worried about her.

He handed over a bone-shaped biscuit from the box he’d purchased earlier. “Why are you complaining? You’ll be home before me at this rate.”

Soon the flashing lights of Deputy Jim Bishop’s identical Chevy Tahoe appeared, and Liam eased his vehicle to the side of the road.

His radio popped to life. “Unit 120.” Rose’s voice was solemn. “Deputy Bishop called in a code four.”

A frisson went through him.

All the years he’d been in law enforcement, he’d yet to overcome his latent dread of fatality calls. “Ten-four.”

He adjusted the collar of his slicker, tugged his hat lower over his forehead and stepped into the pouring rain. Splashing through ankle-deep puddles, he jogged the distance to where Deputy Bishop stood vigil.

Tall and gaunt with thinning sand-colored hair, Bishop was openly gunning for the sheriff’s job in the next election. Given what Liam had seen of the deputy’s job performance, the guy had a better chance of getting kicked by a snake.

The man pointed a slender arm. “Down there. Got a brief look at her before the rising water drove me back.”

A beige Fiat 500 rested upright in water from the culvert, rain streaming through the shattered sunroof. Liam recognized the car—the model was distinctive—but he didn’t know the driver.

“Single fatality,” Deputy Bishop shouted over the storm. “Female.”

Judging by the crumpled exterior, the car had rolled at least once before landing at the bottom of the ditch. The headlights cast a weak, shimmering beam through the rising water, and Liam caught a glimpse of the motionless driver.

“Any identification?” Liam asked.

“Rose is running the license plates.”

Liam always trusted that God had a plan. Sometimes that plan was human intervention. “I’ll check it out.”

“You can’t. You’ll be washed away by the current.”

“Turn on your searchlights,” Liam called over his shoulder.

He shucked his utility belt but kept his police two-way radio clipped to his shirt collar. Rummaging through the rear compartment of his vehicle, he retrieved a rope, then slammed the hatch shut. He paused a moment before deciding to forgo the backboard. Fire and rescue were better equipped to retrieve the body.

Bishop’s truck was parked with the nose angled toward the ditch. After securing the rope to the bumper, Liam tied off and backed toward the vertical grade.

“Take up the slack,” he called.

Bishop nodded.

The drop wasn’t far, but it was steep. Liam’s boots sank into the muddy embankment, and his arms strained against holding the bulk of his weight. Moisture had already soaked through his collar and saturated his uniform. Though it was early spring, the rain was just shy of sleet. He could have left his slicker behind for all the good it was doing him.

His gloved hands slipped, and he lost his grip. The slack broke free. He plunged the last few feet into icy, calf-deep water, his hip bumping painfully into the car’s rear fender. Stumbling and slipping, he managed to fight the current.

“Thanks for keeping the slack, Bishop,” he mumbled darkly.

His feet went numb almost immediately. The rain was coming down too fast, turning runoff from the culvert into a shallow, raging river. The water reached his knees and wrenched at his balance. Gripping the car roof for purchase, he squinted through the dim glow of Bishop’s searchlights and wrestled his way to the shattered driver’s window.

Submerged to the waist, the woman’s lifeless body was slumped over the deployed airbag. Her right arm bobbed near the gearshift, palm up, the fingers curled, and her dark hair hung limply around her downturned face. Papers drifted in the current, escaping through the broken passenger window.

Liam’s throat tightened. Even without seeing her face, he sensed she was about his age.

He offered a brief prayer for her and the family she left behind.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he grasped her shoulder and pulled her upright. Her head lolled backward, and her dark hair plastered wetly across her ashen cheeks. He aimed the beam of his flashlight toward her face. Blood oozed from a gash near her temple, and a purple bruise darkened one eye.

He brushed her hair aside. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen her before. Maybe he’d stood behind her in line at the supermarket. A likely occurrence in a town the size of Redbird.

Her eyes flew open.

Adrenaline spiked through his veins, and the flashlight slipped from his fingers. She gulped for air, her chest heaving, then feebly groped the front of his coat, her expression panicked.

“H-help me.”

He’d caught a brief glimpse of her eyes. A unique shade of amber topaz.

Catching the woman’s hands, he pressed them between his gloves. She wasn’t dead, but she was going to be if they didn’t get her out of this water soon.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “Fire and rescue are on the way.”

“Wh-who are you?” Her teeth chattered.

The question caught him off guard for a moment. That was the problem with being a dead man—remembering his cover name didn’t always come easy.

He sluiced the moisture from his face. “I’m Deputy Liam McCourt with the county sheriff’s department. What’s your name, ma’am?”

“My name is...” An expression of abject terror descended over her features. “I don’t know. I d-don’t know what my name is! Wh-what’s happening to me?”

A fresh sense of urgency filled him. Injuries from car accidents were notoriously deceptive.

“It’s all right.” He cupped his hand behind her head, and she turned her face into his palm. “Don’t be afraid.”

He caught sight of Bishop’s silhouette outlined by the searchlights and depressed the button on his two-way. “Check on fire and rescue. They’re late.”

“I’m c-cold,” she managed to say between chattering teeth.

Something wasn’t right. People sometimes forgot the events leading up to an accident, as though the trauma bleached their memories, but he’d never encountered someone who’d forgotten their own name.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get you out of here.”

“Promise?” She clutched the lapel of his jacket. “Please don’t lie to me.”

Don’t lie to me.

The past six months melted away, and he was no longer standing in the freezing rain. He was suffocating in the sweltering Dallas heat. His memory had taken him to when he was working undercover in the Serpent Brotherhood, playing the same game he’d perfected in foster care. He was pretending to fit in. Pretending to be something he wasn’t. Not even Jenny had seen through his act, and they’d briefly attended grade school together.

For once Liam had been grateful the foster system had bounced him from family to family. Jenny hadn’t known he’d gone to college before joining the Dallas PD. The few people who remembered him from those days believed he was just another kid from the old neighborhood—all grown up and going nowhere.

Are you a cop? Don’t lie to me. Jenny’s words echoed in his mind. Her boyfriend, Swerve, was the lead fixer in the gang and took care of problems by making them disappear. Swerve was responsible for more than one missing person in the Dallas area. He’d gotten agitated during the exchange, and he’d accidentally pulled the trigger. The bullet had carved a path through Liam’s left shoulder, shattering his clavicle before slicing into Jenny’s neck. She’d bled out before the paramedics had arrived.

The scene was a mess, and Swerve thought he’d killed them both. The US Marshals had done the rest. They’d given Liam a new last name and tucked him away while the case wove its slow path through the court system.

A broken tree limb slammed into Liam’s shin, ripping his feet from beneath him, forcing him back to the present. He caught hold of the door handle and dragged himself upright, then wrapped his arm through the open window, bracing his body. A sharp metal edge dug painfully through his sleeve.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Keeping her head supported with one hand, he gently touched the lump on her forehead. “Can you tell if anything is broken?”

“I d-don’t k-know. I don’t th-think so.” She frantically beat against the water swirling around her waist. “I have to get out of here.”

“Soon.” He depressed the Call button on his radio and leaned his ear to his shoulder. “Where’s that fire truck?”

A grating voice sounded from the microphone attached to Liam’s collar. “Delayed. Driver didn’t know the road was washed out.”

“Tell ’em it’s urgent.”

“Hold your horses. Not gonna change things for the victim.”

“She’s alive, Bishop.”

The momentary shock of silence was deafening. “That can’t be. I checked. I didn’t feel a pulse.”

No use arguing about the details when there was a life hanging in the balance. Who knew what other injuries she might have sustained, and she was at risk for hypothermia.

“There’s a backboard in my truck. Send it down,” Liam ordered.

“Ten-four,” came the quiet reply.

The car lurched against the tide of rainwater, and his heart slammed against his ribs.

She didn’t have time to wait for fire and rescue. “We’re getting you out of here, ma’am, but you’ll have to work with me. Can you do that?”

He risked exacerbating her injuries by moving her, but she was going to drown otherwise.

She gave a hesitant nod. The car shifted again, and she bolted upright, grasping his arm.

“Yes,” she gasped. “H-help me.”

His shoulder protested the abuse, and he grimaced.

The woman stilled. “What’s wrong? Are y-you all right?”

“It’s nothing,” he replied gruffly.

His feet sank deeper into the mud, and his gut churned. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep his footing. He didn’t know how much longer they had before the water swept away the car.

The woman took another deep, gulping breath. “I trust you.”

Her declaration knocked the breath from his lungs. The last person who’d trusted him, Jenny, had paid the ultimate price. He’d prayed to God plenty growing up, especially during the worst times, and he’d begged God to save Jenny that day.

He’d gotten the same answer he’d grown accustomed to: silence.

He didn’t resent God for ignoring his prayers, instead, he’d learned that if a man never asked for anything, he was never disappointed.

Lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder rattled the shattered windshield, and her grip on his arm tightened. His past no longer mattered. What mattered now was this woman’s safety.

“Someone f-forced me off the road,” she said. “S-someone tried to kill me.”

She found herself in a freezing nightmare of throbbing pain. Blood pounded inside her skull. Her other pains were too numerous to count, and the frigid rain had her bones aching.

The water was rising.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn’t staying in this car another minute.

“Did you hear me?” She tried to shout over the rushing water, but the words came out warbled. “About the accident?”

“I heard you,” the deputy said, a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get a description of the vehicle and the driver once you’re squared away.”

“A t-truck, I th-think.”

She attempted to reconstruct the moments before careening off the road, but the images at the edges of her vision blurred.

Someone had tried to kill her, and they’d nearly succeeded.

Her eyes must have drifted shut, because the next instant, Deputy McCourt was gently nudging her. “Stay with me.”

He was somewhere in his early thirties and handsome in an earnestly boyish kind of way. The weak beam of light from the highway above wasn’t strong enough to see his eyes, but she had a vague impression they were blue. His beard was dark, and she assumed the hair beneath his brimmed hat matched. He was tall—his shape hidden beneath his enveloping slicker.

The car shifted, and she frantically reached beneath the water to unfasten her seat belt. The mechanism released, and the sudden freedom sent pain shooting through her shoulder.

She clutched her upper arm and groaned.

“What’s wrong?” The deputy steadied her through the broken window. “What happened?”

The strap had been cutting into her collarbone, but she’d been too preoccupied by everything else to notice. “I’m f-fine. Just the seat belt.”

Her lips were going numb, making speech difficult. She pressed her palm against her throbbing head and winced.

The deputy broke the few remaining glass shards from the surrounding window frame. “You’ll have to crawl out. I’ll help you.”

“A-all right.”

As she drifted in and out of consciousness, the next few minutes passed in a blur. Strong arms lifted her from the car’s wreckage. The pain came in gasping waves. Even the slightest movement jolted her battered limbs. Once the deputy had positioned her on the backboard, she struggled feebly against his insistence on checking her for additional injuries. She was fine. She could walk. As he secured her upper body, a shaft of pure agony jerked through her.

“Sorry,” the deputy mumbled. “You have a dislocated shoulder.”

She blinked rapidly through the rain streaming over her face. “Can you put it back?”

“Take a deep breath.” He hovered over her, his gaze intense. “This is gonna hurt.”

His sharp movement caused an anguished cry, but the relief was almost immediate.

“You’re right,” she gasped. “That hurt.”

At least she’d learned one thing about herself—she appreciated honesty.

He brushed the back of his gloved hand over her temple. “Sorry.”

Stepping away, he slipped out of his raincoat.

She held up a restraining hand. “I’m already soaked. Y-you need that more than I do.”

“No arguments.” He leaned over her, adjusting the ties near her head, his body shielding her from the worst of the rain. “You can at least pretend like I’m in charge, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am,” she said weakly, wondering if he’d even hear her words over the rain. “Makes me feel old.”

His expression shifted. “What else should I call you?”

She probed the edges of her memory but met only an endless blank wall.

A sudden terror took hold, as though she was standing on the edge of a void. Her lungs constricted, and she couldn’t breathe. She desperately searched for something that made sense. She knew the man standing above her was a deputy. She recognized the insignia on his hat. Clinging to that one simple fact, she inhaled deeply. If she followed familiar items, they’d lead her out of this shadowy maze.

He clasped her hand. “Never mind. Don’t try and remember. We’ll stick with ma’am for now.”

The deputy made a signal with his hand and the backboard heaved. She grimaced, attempting to hide her discomfort.

“You’re doing great,” he said, his face a blur in the falling rain. “Not much longer.”

“I don’t have anything else planned.”

He grinned. “Keep that sense of humor.”

Images raced through her head. She recalled the steady swish of the windshield wipers—the crash of thunder. The visions were like memories from a dream—hazy and unfocused. Had she imagined the whole thing? She couldn’t have. There’d been a white pickup truck. The driver had crossed in front of her, striking her driver’s-side bumper. The blow had sent her car tumbling. The glass around her had shattered.

Then—nothing.

Her pulse sputtered. That was the worst part—the nothing. The nothing was horrifying. When she neared the edge of her memories, her stomach dropped as though she was falling. As though she was dropping into an endless void.

The only thing she knew for certain was the shocking feel of her car rolling down the hill, and the deputy’s soothing voice. Everything else was gone.

Erased.

When they neared the top of the embankment, another deputy joined them. He was older. Thinner. Not as handsome as Deputy McCourt, and his expression was stricken. Did she really look that bad? The two men rapidly unfastened her from the backboard, and the second man reached for her.

She frantically clutched Deputy McCourt’s arm. “No.”

The reaction came from a gut instinct she didn’t understand and couldn’t govern. Uncontrollable trembling seized her body, and her teeth chattered.

“You drive, Bishop,” Deputy McCourt ordered. “We’ll take my truck.”

He gathered her in his arms, compressing her shaking limbs. He was the only solid thing in her world, the only person she remembered. She pressed her cheek into the damp material of his shirt, her mind filling in the blank spaces with impressions of him. His deep, baritone voice, the curve of his lips in a half smile, the feel of his rough beard against her cheek as he’d drawn her close.

“I’m s-so cold,” she murmured, her mouth close to his ear.

The next moment the rain ceased pounding her skin, and a door slammed. She gasped in sheer relief. The noises outside were instantly muffled, soothing even. She was sheltered. She was safe. Reckless gratitude flooded through her, and she never wanted to leave the protection of the deputy’s arms. His strength and self-assurance were comforting. Everything outside the circle was unknown.

“Not much longer,” he said, his warm breath a soothing balm against her chilled skin. “Stay with me.”

“T-tell me your name again,” she pleaded, her voice hoarse. “Y-your first n-name.”

For reasons she couldn’t explain, his brief hesitation alarmed her.

“Liam. My name is Liam.”

She sensed his ambivalence toward her. As though he didn’t want to be kind to her but couldn’t find it in his nature to act unkind.

“Liam,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue, but there was no spark of familiarity. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am, but I haven’t lived in town long.”

Panic threatened to crush her. How much had she forgotten? What if she was imprisoned in this vacant place forever?

Her breath came in shallow puffs. The memory flashed in her mind again. A white truck. The crash of steel on steel. The sound of breaking glass. Then...nothing.

As though familiar with her moods, Liam seemed to sense the moment the wave of anxiety threatened to drown her.

“You’re all right,” he soothed. “The doc at the ER is good. He’s reliable. I’ve never seen his car parked outside Red’s Bar and Grill. That’s something around here. Not much else to do.”

The even drone of his voice steadied her. She couldn’t look backward; she had to look forward.

Something touched her elbow and she started.

Liam chuckled. “Don’t worry. She’s harmless. She’s my unofficial deputy today. Say hello, Duchess.”

The muzzle of a rust-colored Pomeranian nuzzled her arm, provoking a reluctant grin.

A staticky voice sounded over the police radio. “I have a positive ID on the license plates,” the voice declared.

“Go ahead,” the deputy who was driving said.

She was breathless, her heart pounding as though she was standing on the edge of a precipice. If the dispatcher said her name, surely there’d be a spark of recognition.

“The car is registered to a female. Brown eyes. Brown hair. Five feet five inches, one hundred and thirty pounds, age twenty-nine. Initial background check has her occupation listed as self-employed. Journalist. The name is Emma Lyons.”

Nothing. No flash of memory. No spark of recognition. Nothing. Her stomach pitched, and her fragile world collapsed.

Someone wanted Emma Lyons dead.

Someone wanted her dead.

Why?

TWO

After briefly going home to change into a dry uniform, Liam pushed through the double doors separating the hospital emergency room area from the patient wing, then followed the room numbers. Plastic sheeting blocked the far end of the hallway.

The hospital was in the middle of a long-overdue renovation to keep pace with a new facility in the next town over.

Running his finger beneath the collar of his uniform shirt, Liam strode down the corridor. He’d wrap up his end of the investigation and leave the rest to Bishop. End of story. This was no time to become entangled in something personal, and he was drawn to Emma. The combination was toxic.

She was standing beside the bed in a shapeless, blue-patterned hospital gown, her arm in a sling. Her damp hair was freshly brushed and hung in a chestnut curtain brushing her shoulders.

She appeared lost and alone, and his decision to remain impartial faltered. His name might be a lie and the job might be temporary, but he had eight years of law enforcement experience behind him. His expertise hadn’t deserted him even if his name and his job title were different.

Despite the purple bruising and stitches around her temple, Emma Lyons was pretty in a fresh, hometown-girl sort of way. Though not very tall, she was athletically built. No spouse or children had come up on her background check, and Rose was searching for an emergency contact.

She took a wobbly step forward, her good arm outstretched for balance.

He rushed to her side. “Are you supposed to be out of bed?”

“Sorry.” She swayed into him. “Just a little dizzier than I thought.”

He instinctively wrapped his arm around her waist. Her smile of thanks was radiant, and warmth spread up his neck. They stood close enough that he noted the pale freckles sprinkled flirtatiously across the bridge of her nose.

He snuck a glance at her face. “All right?”

“Better, thank you.”

An unexpected shock of awareness rippled across his heart. Clutching his forearms, she dropped wearily onto the hospital bed and exhaled, her cheeks puffing.

A dark-skinned man in scrubs and a lab coat stepped into the room.

Liam backed away, bumping into the edge of the bed frame. “She, uh, needed some help.”

The doctor was in his late forties with black hair and an empathetic smile.

“I’m Dr. Javadi,” he said. “We spoke earlier. Will Deputy Bishop be joining us?”

“He’s still on scene,” Liam replied.

And none too happy about it. Bishop was knee-deep in mud when Liam drove by on the way back to the hospital. The deputy had been too bored to stick around the ER, but he was most likely regretting his decision to leave.

“Right,” the doctor said. “Any change in your condition, Ms. Lyons?”

“I was looking at myself in the mirror,” Emma said with a sigh. “Do you know what it’s like, staring at a stranger?”

The doctor retrieved a computer tablet from a large, square pocket on his lab coat. “Considering what Deputy McCourt told me about the accident, you’re incredibly fortunate, Ms. Lyons. You’ve suffered various scrapes and bruises along with a dislocated shoulder.”

He turned to Liam. “Were you the one who set that?”

“I made the call on scene.”

“You did the right thing,” the doctor replied brusquely. “Being young and healthy, you should recover quickly, Ms. Lyons.”

Emma made a sound of frustration. “I’m well aware of my physical injuries. What’s wrong with my head? Why can’t I remember my name? My address? Where am I, anyway?”

Liam’s attention sharpened. He’d assumed her earlier confusion was temporary.

“We’re in Redbird, Texas,” he offered.

She lifted her arm, her fingers fluttering. “That means nothing to me.”

Battling temptation, he remained silent—offering no words of comfort. Jenny had seen him as something he wasn’t. The betrayal in her eyes when she’d taken her last breath was seared on his soul. He couldn’t risk getting too close to a victim in a case while he was living a lie. He couldn’t afford to blur the lines with Emma.

“You’re suffering from an atypical form of retrograde amnesia,” Dr. Javadi said, his voice gratingly patient. “Though rare, it’s not an unheard-of condition.”

Emma pressed the heels of her hands against her temples. “I don’t understand.”

“Retrograde amnesia tends to affect autobiographical memory but leaves procedural memory in place.”

The two men remained silent, letting her absorb the information. Emotions flitted across her expressive face: fear, confusion...annoyance.

Her hands dropped to her sides, leaving an angry splash of red where she’d been pressing. “You’re saying that even though I don’t know my name, I can tie my shoes and tell the time. That’s why you had me do all those things before, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. As long as you possessed a skill before the accident, you’ll have that same skill now.”

“I thought that sort of thing only happened in movies.”

The doctor flashed a weak smile. “Reality is often stranger than fiction.”

“What’s the cure?” Emma adjusted her shoulder sling with a grimace. “Is there something familiar I can look at? Someone I can call who will jog my memory?”

Liam’s heart went out to her. He knew a little something about being a stranger in a strange place. She was vulnerable, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he was protective of her.

“Reminder treatment has proven unreliable in these cases,” the doctor said. “In all likelihood, you’ll recover your memory, although the time around the accident may never come back. We don’t have a lot of studies on the subject, but experience has taught us that the memories surrounding a trauma are the most fragile. On the plus side, these cases generally resolve themselves when swelling in the temporal lobe abates. You may experience a spontaneous recovery, or your memory may come back in pieces, in random order. There are no guarantees, though. The episode may last days or even weeks. In extremely rare cases, the damage can be permanent.”

“No.” Emma blinked rapidly, her eyes welling with tears. “No. This isn’t permanent. I won’t believe that. I can’t believe that.”

Liam staggered back a step. Permanent?

She scooted nearer and grasped his sleeve, her gaze imploring. At his brief hesitation, hurt flickered across her topaz eyes, and she looked away. She was attempting to put on a brave face and mostly succeeding.

While he longed to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder—to offer some sort of gesture to make her feel less alone—he couldn’t. He’d learned his lesson the hard way. When emotions ran high, even the slightest gesture was liable to be misconstrued.

Clearing his throat, he said, “We’ll contact your family. You shouldn’t be alone.”

“My family?” Her eyes widened. “Do I have a husband? Children?”

“No spouse or children came up in the initial background check,” Liam said quickly over her panic. “You’re self-employed, which means we haven’t been able to locate an emergency contact.”

The doctor retrieved a stylus from his scrubs pocket and scribbled something on the tablet screen. “I’m keeping you a few days for observation.”

Emma’s jaw dropped and quickly snapped shut again. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know,” the doctor said quietly. “But considering your condition, I can’t, in good conscience, release you. Think of your brain like an engine. This injury has run you out of gas. The only way to refuel is with rest.”

“An engine?” She harrumphed. “I feel like I’ve been in a demolition derby. And what about my car? I’m assuming I won’t be able to drive it anytime soon.”

“More like never.” Liam speared a hand through his damp hair. “The car is totaled. We’ll retrieve your personal effects and have it towed to the county impound while we investigate the accident.”

“What about my parents? Siblings?” she asked, a quiver at the end of her question. “Is anyone looking for me?”

“Your parents are deceased,” Liam said. There was nothing that might indicate her location on the internet—her address had been removed from all the usual locations, and even those databases that were less familiar to laymen, as though she was hiding from something. Or someone. “The closest relative is listed as a brother. We’re tracking him down. I’m not concerned we haven’t received a call about a missing person. People tend to drift off schedule over the weekend. Come Monday, we’ll probably get a hit.”

Emma blinked rapidly, a myriad of emotions flitting across her eloquent features, and he wanted to kick himself. This case was different. She wasn’t the usual victim. Everything was foreign to her. Hearing the details of her life was like learning of her parents’ deaths for the first time.

The doctor shot him a quelling glance. “You’ve had an eventful day, Ms. Lyons. It’s late. A lot of these details can wait until the morning. I’ll want to speak with you before she’s released, Deputy McCourt.”

Liam gave a negative shake of his head. “Deputy Bishop is the lead on this case.”

“I’d rather work with you.” Emma reached for him. “Do I have any say in the matter?”

Fighting his better nature, he avoided her appeal. He was tired of living in limbo. Each day he was away from Dallas, he slipped further from his old life. If he accepted this assignment, he risked being torn between two responsibilities. The US Marshals were liable to call him back to testify any day now. He had no business digging into a troublesome and personal case when he might not be able to follow through.

“Deputy Bishop was the first on scene,” Liam said. “It’s up to the sheriff to change the assignments.”

His protective feelings for Emma didn’t play any part in the matter. Emotions were a luxury he couldn’t afford.

“You didn’t leave me before,” she pleaded. “You can’t abandon me now.”

A swelling pulse throbbed in his ears. His first partner had nicknamed him “The Pitbull” because once he got his teeth into a case, he locked his jaws and didn’t let go. Despite his personal doubts, he’d gone along with faking his death. The department and the Feds had invested too much time and too many resources to risk blowing the case.

No matter the reasons, whether real or fake, his death had left unfinished business. If God didn’t answer prayers from guys like Liam, then he had to do the work himself. No amount of righteous conviction assuaged his guilt.

“We’ll assess your situation in the morning.” The doctor spoke into the awkward silence. “For now, get some rest, Ms. Lyons. The staff can reach me if there’s a change in your condition.” He paused in the doorway. “I’ll call the sheriff’s office when the rest of the tox reports come back.”

Liam had hauled in enough drunk drivers to know the tests would come back negative. “Sure.”

There was white paint on the bumper of Emma’s car, corroborating her story that someone had forced her off the road.

Bishop had labeled the case an aggravated assault with a motor vehicle—no credible leads. Given her loss of memory, they were starting from scratch. There was no immediate way of knowing if Emma had a jealous boyfriend or a disgruntled acquaintance in her past.

The lengths she’d gone to in order to hide her address on the internet gave the only hint there might be someone out there who wanted to harm her. People who simply preferred to remain anonymous online generally didn’t have the resources for such a thorough internet cleaning of location information. Then again, maybe she was simply a private person who was willing to pay to stay off the grid.

She glanced at her clenched hands. “I’m scared.”

Her whispered confession tugged at his conscience. “There’s a security guard, Tim, who we keep on call for...unique situations.” Usually for the unruly drunks being treated after a bar fight. He glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. “I’ve got some paperwork to fill out. I might as well wait around for him. I’ll be just outside the door if you need anything.”

He desperately craved some shut-eye, but her vulnerability kept him rooted in place. There was no harm in sticking around a little while longer.

“I appreciate the offer.” She managed a wobbly half smile. “But it’s late. You should go home to your family.”

“Don’t worry. There’s no one waiting up for me.” He mentally chastised himself for the lapse. Why had he offered up that information? “Try and get some sleep.”

She leaned to the side, pulling her legs to rest on the bed. After adjusting her pillow, she tucked one hand beneath her cheek. “Thank you for saving me tonight.”

The blanket was trapped beneath her injured arm. He carefully dislodged the edge and draped the material around her shoulders. Avoiding her gaze, he shuffled back a few steps. His fingers itched to brush the hair from her forehead, but he caught himself just in time. What was wrong with him? Lack of sleep was turning him sentimental.

He wasn’t a nurturing person. He never had been. Maybe if he’d been raised differently...or maybe not. Maybe he simply wasn’t wired that way.

“I’d do the same for anyone,” he said, wincing at the harsh edge in his tone. “It’s part of the job.”

There was no need to make this personal. His involvement was already drifting into a gray area. Bishop was the first responder on scene. The investigation wasn’t Liam’s responsibility unless the sheriff said otherwise.

She offered another smile that sent heat curling through his stomach.

“I’m sorry for all the trouble,” she said, her hand muffling a yawn. “I’m sure this wasn’t how you planned to spend your evening.”

She was grateful to him, but gratitude went only so far. He wasn’t the sort of guy who women introduced to mom and dad. His past was a hinderance.

Marrying someone meant marrying their family, as well, and no one wanted to marry into the mess that was his family tree.

He stared at the tops of his scuffed boots. “Deputy Bishop will update you on the case when he has more information.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He wasn’t abandoning her. He’d keep an eye on Bishop’s handling of the investigation. He always did.

When she awkwardly reached to adjust the blanket, he kept his hands at his sides.

“Will I see you again?” she asked quietly.

“Probably not.”

If the doctor was right, she’d most likely wake with total recall. Once she remembered who wanted to harm her, even Bishop couldn’t botch the case, saving Liam from any further involvement.

“Good night, Emma.”

“Good night,” she managed to say over another sleepy yawn.

No loose ends. No regrets.

Why, then, did he feel as though it was already too late for both of them?

Emma startled awake and glanced at the clock in sleepy confusion. Just before 6:00 a.m. Which meant...she bolted upright. Today was Sunday already. After the accident on Friday evening, Saturday had passed in a blur. She’d slept nearly the entire day and night.

Her impressions of the time were hazy. Nurses had told her to rest, but each time she’d dozed, she’d returned to the nightmare of the crash and the water rising around her. They’d finally convinced her to take something to sleep, and she’d spent the rest of the evening in blissful oblivion.

They were planning on sending her home today—whatever that meant—and she was terrified.

She’d been avoiding the shadowy recesses of her brain, fearful of the accompanying panic. Daybreak had brought a reckoning. She’d have to re-create her past brushstroke by brushstroke, no matter what lay hidden in the shadows.

Lightning temporarily illuminated the room, a harbinger of the windowpane-rattling clap of thunder.

She thought of Deputy McCourt, and despair jolted through her. She trusted him more than the other deputy, the one who’d left her in the watery nightmare, but Liam had been emphatic about his limited involvement in the case.

She’d have to rely on herself, and that meant finding out who wanted her dead.

Trembling with anticipation, she tossed off the blankets. She was wide awake and desperate for coffee. Maybe she’d take the opportunity to walk the corridors and stretch her legs. A stack of folded clothing rested on the chair beside her bed.

Her shoulder was stiff and sore, but she didn’t need the sling. One of the hospital staff had washed her sleeveless blue shell top, thin navy cardigan and jeans. Her tennis shoes were stiff from the dried rain, but she managed to untangle the laces and slide them on.

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and started. Approaching the glass, she touched her cheek with quaking fingers. Her heartbeat picked up rhythm and her breathing grew shallow. She’d seen her face in the mirror before, but she was still growing accustomed to the sight. As though she was looking at someone else through the reflection.

Wrenching her gaze away, she sucked in a deep, calming breath.

She had to get out of this room—out of her head—if only for a moment.

Tim, the security guard, was sprawled on a chair outside her room with his arms crossed and his chin tucked against his chest as he snored softly. Emma grimaced. Not exactly the protection she was offered, but given the state of her memory, she understood the skepticism about her claims.

Deputy Bishop had spoken to her only briefly. He’d dropped off the personal possessions from her car and asked a few perfunctory questions about her recollection of events.

She hadn’t been sorry to see him go.

An empty cup of coffee rested near Tim’s foot, and her annoyance dissipated. He’d kept watch over her two nights in a row. No wonder he was tired. She’d make some noise on her return to wake him.

A fresh-faced nurse in navy scrubs decorated with cartoon kittens directed her to an employee break room at the far end of the building—the only source of coffee that didn’t involve anxious grandparents waiting on an expectant mother in labor and delivery. The hospital was too small for a cafeteria.

Following the nurse’s directions, she maneuvered through the overlapping plastic sheeting separating the renovations from the occupied areas of the hospital. There were four additional patient rooms, two on either side of the corridor. The first door was propped open, and she caught sight of the gutted space with bare Sheetrock walls and colorful wires dangling from the ceiling.

The combined scents of paint and sawdust triggered a sense of familiarity, sparking a memory that was just out of reach.

She pressed her fists against her temples, willing the image to take shape.

Nothing.

Her head pounded from the futile effort, and she dropped her hands to her sides. Her brain might as well be this deserted wing of this hospital—empty, under construction and full of obstacles.

She took a step, and her toe caught on a stack of ceiling tiles. Yelping, she stumbled to the side, then stifled her amplified reaction with a hand to her mouth. Her ordeal on Friday had left her nervous about being alone in a deserted corridor, and for good reason.

Except she was being ridiculous. There were plenty of other people in the building. The security guard, Tim, was within shouting distance.

A thump sounded, and she froze. Cocking her head, she strained to hear over the raindrops pummeling the roof. Her imagination was getting the better of her.

She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, careful to avoid the stacks of tools and construction equipment piled near the floorboards. No wonder this area was supposed to be off-limits to patients. Still, she was thankful the nurse had made an exception. She wasn’t ready to face the possibility of running into someone she knew but didn’t recognize just yet.

The break room was compact with a row of vending machines on one side, and a sink, refrigerator and single-cup coffee maker on the other. The glare from the freshly waxed floor was almost painful.

“See Emma?” she said aloud to bolster herself. “Nothing bad could happen in a room this clean.”

Two tables, each set with four bright orange molded chairs, were scattered throughout the space.

Determined to get ahold of herself, she turned toward the coffee maker. A variety of single-serve cups overflowed the basket, and she chose one labeled Breakfast Blend. Fisting her hand around the plastic, she squeezed her eyes shut, welcoming the pain as the sharp edges dug into her palm.

This wasn’t fair. Why did she instinctively reach for the coffee she liked, but she couldn’t remember her own name?

Emma. Emma Lyons.

She snorted softly. Her name could have been Jane Doe for all the sense “Emma” made to her.

As she reached for the coffee maker, the room plunged into darkness. Blood rushed in her ears. She took a cautious step toward the exit, her hands outstretched like a blind, lurching mummy. Gooseflesh pebbled her skin.

Someone was in the room with her. She didn’t know how she knew; she just did.

“Hello?” she called, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Tim?”

Fabric dropped over her head and strong arms crushed her middle, robbing the air from her lungs.

She expanded her chest to scream, catching a mouthful of cloth and the unmistakable odor of bleach.

A hand clamped over her face, and she clawed at the arm circling her waist. The man was taller than her and stronger. Her fingers sank into the soft flesh of his arm. He jerked her against his chest, and her injured shoulder throbbed in agony. Her vision blurred.

Her attacker squeezed tighter, and her knees grew weak.

“Don’t faint on me,” a low voice growled near her ear. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Stars exploded at the edges of her vision, and she frantically stomped on the man’s instep while simultaneously jabbing her elbow into his solar plexus. He grunted, his grip loosening. She struggled away but he yanked her backward, trapping both arms against her sides.

“You’re a fighter,” her attacker growled. “I like that.”

Nausea threatened, and her rib cage ached. Her lungs felt as though they were going to explode. She lifted her foot to stomp again, but her attacker easily moved out of reach. The lack of oxygen was draining her. She had to breathe. Her muscles were weak and sluggish, refusing to cooperate.

An odd sense of calm invaded her chaotic thoughts. She was suffocating mere feet from safety. She couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not now.

Her pulse thrummed, and with a burst of fury, she wrested one arm free. Instinct took over. His eyes were vulnerable. She reached behind and above her, searching for his face, but the angle was too awkward. Tearing at the cloth instead, she managed to free her mouth.

As she let loose an earsplitting scream, a savage blow knocked her to the ground, and her attacker’s low whisper vibrated near her ear. “We aren’t finished yet.”

THREE

Liam stuffed his phone into his pocket and glared at the slumbering security guard. No wonder his calls had gone unanswered. A paper cup with the last dredges of coffee rested on the floor beside the chair leg. The caffeine wasn’t working.

He nudged the guard’s toe with his foot. “Wake up, sunshine.”

Tim slumped to one side. Liam’s pulse spiked, and he lunged. He lowered the bulky guard to the patterned tile floor. Pressing two fingers to the base of Tim’s throat, he noted a strong, steady pulse thumping beneath his fingertips.

The guard mumbled something, his eyes fluttering.

Liam glanced at the coffee cup. Had the guard been drugged? He showed all the classic signs of an overdose. Thankfully, the man’s pulse was normal and his breathing steady.

Confident Tim was in no imminent danger, Liam straightened and shouldered his way into the patient’s room. “Emma?”

The space was empty. The bed was neatly made. Forcing his emotions aside, he ran through the possible scenarios. There were no signs of a struggle. Though the hospital wasn’t exactly teeming with activity, it also wasn’t so deserted that someone could drug and kidnap Emma without being noticed. She must have been forced out with a threat. But how long ago?

A sound brought him around so quickly his shoes squeaked.

“What’s wrong with Tim?” A redheaded nurse in navy scrubs decorated with pink, frolicking kittens appeared. “What happened?”

She knelt before the prone man and began taking his vitals.

“I think he’s been drugged,” Liam said. “And don’t touch that cup.”

She gave a clipped nod. “I’ll inform the doctor.”

“Have you seen Emma? The patient in this room?”

“Went for coffee.” The nurse jerked a thumb over her shoulder without taking her attention from the prone security guard. “Down the hall. Last door on the left.”

A thump sounded. Liam glanced at the cordoned-off section of the hospital wing. Too early for construction workers.

Someone screamed, the sound cutting off abruptly.

A familiar rush of adrenaline surged through his blood. Retrieving his service weapon, he extended his arm. He crossed the distance and maneuvered through the plastic sheeting toward the sound.

“Emma!”

The corridor was plunged in darkness, and he reached for his flashlight before recalling he hadn’t yet replaced the one he’d lost two days ago.

“Emma!” he called again.

His shin cracked against a stack of construction supplies. Righting himself, he fumbled for the wall, using his left hand to guide him through the pitch-black corridor.

His fingers bumped against a switch. The sudden shock of light temporarily blinded him.

A flash of orange sailed through the air, and a molded plastic chair bounced painfully off his forearm before clattering to the floor.

She came at him like a wildcat.

“Emma!” He stumbled backward, deflecting her blows, but not before she clocked him in the jaw. Stinging pain fired through his cheek. “It’s me, Liam.”

Recognition seemed to wash over Emma, and she sagged.

He quickly stowed his weapon with one hand and caught her against his chest with the other. “It’s all right, it’s over. You’re safe.”

“A man. There was a man.” She turned her face into his shirt, muffling her voice. “He tried to suffocate me. He said...he said, we aren’t finished yet.”

Liam’s training urged him to follow the perpetrator, but his arms tightened around Emma. Catching himself, he pulled away. There were only two ways to exit the building from this location, and Liam had come from one of them.

“It’s going to be all right.” He threaded his fingers through her dark silken hair and urged her to meet his gaze. “Wait here.”

The tips of her eyelashes sparkled with unshed tears, and his heartbeat tripped. Eyes like that were the reason cops quit hanging out with the guys after work and went straight home instead. They were the reason the pictures on their phones changed from deer camps to hospital nurseries. Eyes like that were dangerous.

“I’ll be fine.” She touched the bandage at her temple, her fingers trembling. “Catch him.”

His senses vibrating on high alert, Liam sprinted the distance and kicked open the exit door to an empty parking lot on the far side of the building.

Sheeting rain hindered visibility. Forcing his fisted hands to relax, he scanned the perimeter. No cars. No people. Nothing.

Traffic rumbled past on the highway to his left. A vehicle needed thirty seconds to melt into oblivion. At least three minutes had passed since he’d first heard the commotion.

Above his head, a shiny new security camera perched beneath the eaves. A wide grin spread across his face. Nothing like modern technology to make the job a little easier.

He rang the station for backup before returning inside.

The break room was empty, and he had a brief moment of panic before discovering Emma hovering outside her hospital room. Organized chaos reigned as orderlies along with Dr. Javadi wrestled Tim onto a gurney. The redheaded nurse, her hands encased in blue surgical gloves, handed Liam a plastic bag containing the empty paper cup.

“I didn’t let anyone touch this,” she said with a mournful glance at the prone security guard. “Like you asked.”

He’d seen the nurse and the guard speaking earlier and sensed their relationship was more than casual.

Liam accepted the bag. “The break room is off-limits until further notice. It’ll be taped.”

“I’ll let the staff know.”

Dr. Javadi glanced up. “He should be all right. He’s got a strong pulse and his airway is clear. Judging by the symptoms, I’m guessing he ingested an overdose of a prescription sleeping pill. I’ll know more when the tox screens come back.”

Liam had seen more than his fair share of overdoses. He didn’t envy the guard the stomach pumping he was about to receive. “Keep me informed of his condition.”

As the group rushed off, Liam touched Emma’s elbow. “We should have someone check you out too.”

“It’s all right. I’m fine. Tim needs the help more.” She pressed a fist to her mouth. “I thought he dozed off. I just left him there. I walked right past him.”

“That’s nothing. I nudged him with my foot and called him sunshine.”

Her full lips formed a perfect O before she mumbled, “Yikes.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Not exactly his finest hour. At least Tim was young and healthy. Liam had no doubt he’d make a full recovery. “We can both apologize in person.”

Her face was pale and devoid of makeup, making her appear younger than her age. She wore jeans with a wispy navy cardigan crossed double over her stomach, her white-knuckled fingers clutching the edges together.

He gently maneuvered her to a chair beside the bed. “Sit. Can I get you a drink of water?”

He’d give her a few minutes to collect herself—but not too long. He needed her observations of the attack while the memories were fresh. Keeping his rage at bay was secondary. He’d been filled with a nearly uncontrollable fury since discovering her empty room. Someone had done this on his watch. On his turf.

“I’m thirsty,” she said. “But is it safe to drink anything?”

“Brought this from home.” He retrieved a bottle of water from his pocket and twisted the cap. “About as safe as it gets.”

She gratefully accepted the offering and wrapped her hands around the plastic.

“Are you certain you’re not hurt?” he asked gently. “Adrenaline often masks injuries.”

The first thing he’d felt after being shot was relief instead of pain. Relief that he was still alive. He’d known the bullet was coming the minute Swerve confronted him. Jenny’s shouted accusations of his betrayal, and his subsequent denial that he was a cop, had only delayed the inevitable.

Swerve had been too distraught over killing Jenny to realize his intended target had survived. Sirens had followed. Maybe Swerve had called the ambulance in the hopes of saving Jenny, or maybe someone else had. Liam supposed it didn’t mattered.

Emma swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. “He didn’t hurt me. He caught me by surprise, that was all.”

A violent shudder traveled the length of her body, and a wave of helpless frustration crashed over him. Maintaining a healthy distance with crime victims was part of the job. The only way to stay sane. Bad things happened to good people all the time. Jenny’s death had shaken him, but he’d done what he’d always done—he’d boxed his emotions and tucked them away. He’d left the ultimate judgment to God. Emma’s situation was dredging up feelings he thought he’d buried.

She needed a protector, and he’d already failed her once. Any distraction risked dangerous consequences for them both.

Her face averted, Emma tucked her dark hair behind one ear, exposing the purple bruising on her temple from the car accident.

A wave of dizziness hit him hard, sweeping him into the past again. Swerve had backhanded Jenny the day before the shooting, and Liam had defended her. The response was instinctive. And fatal. His actions had triggered Swerve’s suspicions, bringing into focus other incidents that might have escaped scrutiny while highlighting Liam’s lengthy absence from the neighborhood after grade school. That was the risk of undercover work. There was never a way to escape inside a role completely. He’d tried to protect Jenny, and he’d gotten her killed instead.

With an effort born from years of practice, he shoved his personal feelings down. He knew better than anyone what happened when professional duties mixed with high emotions.

Nothing good.

He dragged a chair around to face Emma and sat. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and intertwined his fingers. “I need to know exactly what happened. Tell me everything you remember. Every detail, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem.”

She rested her hand over his, as though clinging to a lifeline. Despite his rigorous self-talk, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

“Try and relax,” he said. “Close your eyes if you need to. Tell me everything you remember.

Her throat worked. She appeared lost in the memory of what had just happened, and he doubted she even realized she was touching him.

She took another deep, shuddering breath. “I’m ready.”

Gazing into the distance, she related the story with clinical precision to detail. She was a writer, he’d done his homework over the weekend, and her skills showed in her meticulous observations.

He’d spent the previous day researching her background. She was an investigative journalist who’d written a couple of novels. A sense of familiarity had nagged him, but he’d yet to discover why. Maybe she seemed familiar because she wrote about famous serial killers. According to her website, one of her books had been optioned for a movie.

The bottle of water in her hand crackled in her tight grip. “When I heard your footsteps, I thought he’d come back.”

Liam jutted his sore chin. “You’ve got a mean right hook.”

As though noticing her hand clutching his for the first time, she snatched her arm away. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t let him catch me by surprise again. I don’t know what happened.”

“You were acting on instinct.” He absently rubbed his thumb over the lingering warmth of her touch. “That’s good. That’s what’s supposed to happen. You’re tough. Sounds like you’ve had some self-defense training. Your body remembered what to do even though your mind may have forgotten the details.”

She splayed her fingers and flexed them a few times. Her nails were neatly manicured ovals painted a dusky shade of pink.

She smiled tremulously. “I don’t feel very tough.”

“I’ve got the bruises to prove it,” he joked, drawing delicate color to her pale cheeks.

Her gaze dropped, and she gasped. “You’re hurt! You’re bleeding.”

He stretched out his leg. The second blow to his shin had opened the previous wound. The bleeding wasn’t bad, just enough to soak through the material. The damage had already dried and darkened.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

She leaned forward, her hands outstretched. “I should take a look.”

“No,” he all but shouted, wincing as his voice echoed off the high ceilings. Exposing his leg felt too intimate. Too personal. He tucked his foot beneath the chair. “It’s fine. Let’s get back to what happened.”

Despite the odds, she hadn’t given up. She’d been ready to fight with someone who was considerably bigger and stronger, and he admired her bravery.

Emma stood and moved a distance away, her arms wrapped protectively around her body. As much as he regretted the continued interrogation, the time immediately following the incident was vital. They both needed a little distance, and telling her story was the best way to achieve some perspective.

“Anything else you remember?” he asked.

“Like I said, I didn’t get a good look at him. He was taller than me, but not by a lot. Maybe five foot eight or five-nine. Not an athlete. I jabbed him in the stomach.” She absently rubbed her elbow. “I didn’t hit a six-pack. I don’t even know if I can identify his speech because he only whispered. That’s all I can say.”

A rumble of footsteps sounded in the corridor along with familiar voices. Bishop had arrived with the sheriff, easing the tension in Liam’s shoulders.

Sheriff Bill Garner was the one saving grace that came from working in Redbird. With a solid history in law enforcement, the sheriff’s experience showed. He’d already served twenty years in the Fort Worth Police Department when he ran for county sheriff. That was ten years ago. Now he was ten years away from pulling two pensions along with his social security.

Garner wasn’t coasting toward his retirement, either. He worked hard, and he made sure Bishop and Liam did the same. All in all, he made life in Redbird infinitely more palatable. If he had a penchant for assigning nicknames that were more mocking than endearing, and if he occasionally had a sharp edge in his voice, most folks gave him a pass.

The sheriff spotted Emma and moved into the room.

His gaze intense, he clasped one of her hands between both of his and leaned forward. “So you’re the little lady that’s been causing all the trouble.”

“This is Emma Lyons,” Liam said. “Emma, this is Sheriff Garner.”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the sheriff asked, a bemused expression on his face.

Her brows knitted, and she shook her head.

“Probably for the best.” The sheriff chuckled. “Gave you a speeding ticket about a week ago.”

“Oh, uh, I don’t remember,” she mumbled.

The sheriff was showing his age with graying hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee along with a barely noticeable paunch, but no one could fault his endurance or mental prowess.

“I wish I was here about something as simple as a traffic citation, Ms. Lyons,” the sheriff said. “Do you mind if I steal my deputy for a moment? We’re gonna let the doc check you out.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” she said, her pose challenging. “I need to find out who wants me dead. I don’t know if it’s a boyfriend or some random crazy guy. Do you have any idea how that feels?”

Liam arched a brow. He’d yet to see this side of Emma—and he liked the juxtaposition. She was vulnerable, but she was no pushover. The sheriff needed to be challenged once in a while. They all did.

Garner sighed, his hands worrying the change in his pocket. “I’m real sorry, Ms. Lyons. We’re doing everything we can.”

Bishop knocked on the door frame to catch their attention, his expression grim. “We’ve got a problem. The security cameras in the parts of the hospital under renovation aren’t wired yet. We’ve got no footage.”

Liam’s stomach curdled. “I was counting on that footage.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” the sheriff said. “This close to the highway, he was long gone by the time you gave chase. We’ll check the cameras on the other buildings in the area. Maybe they caught something. Looks like we’ve got someone familiar with breaking the law. Ms. Lyons is safe. That’s what’s important. You did good.”

The sheriff’s vote of confidence fell flat for Liam. He’d been marking time on the job. With only nuisance calls and drunk drivers to fill his days, his skills had slipped. Not anymore. The sheriff dealt with the same mundane problems, and he stayed sharp. The fault rested with Liam. He’d been a good cop in Dallas.

Redbird, for all its eccentricities, deserved a good cop, as well.

Emma toyed with her bangs, brushing them from her forehead. “What exactly does that mean? Why do you think the person who ran me off the road is familiar with breaking the law?”

“This isn’t someone acting in a fit of rage,” the sheriff explained. “This is someone who plans carefully. Methodically. Despite what you read in books, that’s not something we see too often. Most crimes are impulsive, which means people make mistakes. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Despite what you read in books... True crime.

The nagging voice in the back of Liam’s mind surfaced with a howl. He’d previously discounted the connection as too far-fetched. In the absence of any other information, he had to reconsider the possibility.

He reached for his phone. “I know where to start looking.”

“Now that’s a loaded statement,” the sheriff declared. “Care to elaborate?”

Liam scrolled through the glowing screen on his phone and flashed the picture that had sparked his initial suspicions. “She writes about serial killers. Someone with methodical patience wants to kill her. Doesn’t take a lot to connect the dots.”

Pressing her fingers against the tick-tick-tick banging in her head, Emma stared at the photo on the deputy’s phone. “Are you certain I write about serial killers?”

She desperately wanted to remember, but even the idea left her queasy. None of this made any sense. What sort of person immersed herself in the mind of a killer?

Sheriff Garner squinted at the tiny screen. “I don’t have my glasses. You’ll have to explain what I’m seeing.”

The sheriff’s nose was prominent below deep-set eyes and he had a charming Texas twang. Deep creases formed parentheses around a mouth that seemed to naturally relax into an easy grin. Though he gave the appearance of being laid-back, Emma doubted many people crossed him. She sensed he ruled with an iron fist in a velvet glove.

Deputy Bishop guffawed. “It’s a book cover. What does a book cover have to do with anything?”

Emma shivered and rubbed her upper arms. When the surly deputy had delivered her personal belongings, his attitude had been borderline rude. There was an expectant look on his face—a challenge in his questions. The encounter had left her with a feeling of unease she hadn’t been able to shake. He didn’t look well, either. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin was sallow.

“You’re a true-crime writer. An investigative journalist with an impressive list of books to your name,” Liam said.

He scrolled through the pictures and revealed a glossy publicity photo of her smiling face.

Gazing in wonder at the screen, she managed a bemused, “That’s me?”

She recognized herself from the face she saw in the mirror, though she didn’t recall posing for the picture.

“Your last book was a number one bestseller,” Liam said. “And, according to your website, optioned into a movie.”

“At least I’m a successful writer,” she said. “That’s something, I guess.”

“Last year, you bought a house in Redbird,” he continued. “You moved here from Dallas. I thought I recognized you that first night, but I wasn’t sure. I finally remembered. You wrote a series of articles for the Dallas Morning News about the Killing Fields. I must have recognized you from your picture in the paper.”

The Killing Fields. She should probably know what he was talking about, but the name meant nothing to her.

Annoyance tightened her lips. She was heartily sick of playing catch up with her own life. “What are the Killing Fields?”

“A stretch of Interstate 45 between Galveston and Houston,” Liam patiently explained. “It’s known as the Highway to...well, let’s just say it’s the preferred dumping ground for serial killers.”

A break in the clouds drew her gaze toward the window. Streaks of morning sunlight glittered over the rain-dampened trees. There was so much beauty in the world, why had she chosen to immerse herself in darkness?

“That sounds gruesome.” She shuddered. “Why was I writing about the Killing Fields?”

“Twelve of the thirty bodies discovered on that stretch of highway in the past fifty or so years have been attributed to two different killers.” Liam glanced up from his phone. “But eighteen of those victims remain open cases. All women.”

The knots in her stomach pulled tighter. “Eighteen? That’s...that’s insane.” She searched the faces of the three men for a mirror of her shock, but no one else seemed particularly outraged by the number. “Doesn’t that seem like a lot?”

“We do what we can,” the sheriff said with a hard, forced smile. “But one out of every three murders remain unsolved.”

“History tells us that serial killers don’t stop until they’re caught,” Liam added. “If our suspicions are correct, then he’s still out there.”

Nausea welled in the back of her throat. He’s still out there.

There was a chance that someone who’d killed before without mercy wanted her dead, and he’d nearly succeeded.

Twice.

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