Killer Amnesia. Sherri Shackelford
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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?
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,