Killer Amnesia

by Sherri Shackelford

  “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 muzzl
e 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.”