Killer Amnesia

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.