memories, they slipped further out of reach.
Disgust welled in her chest. Why couldn’t she remember?
“I don’t get the connection.” The sheriff tilted back his head and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “All those cases have been solved. Doesn’t make any sense. There’s no motive.”
“What about the Killing Fields murders?” Liam asked. “Eighteen additional bodies. That’s a lot of unsolved crimes. Maybe she stumbled onto something and worried someone.”
Her ears buzzed. All those women murdered and abandoned. Their deaths unsolved. What must that be like for their loved ones? For their families?
Hopelessly desperate, she appealed to Liam. “You read the articles. Did I name a suspect that might want to silence me?”
“Yeah, McCourt,” Bishop said, his nasal voice grating on her nerves. “You did your homework, right? What else can you tell us about her?”
Emma shrank from the deputy’s pointed appraisal. He was studying her more than helping her. As though he was cataloging her reactions and searching for inconsistencies.
The sheriff glared at him. “Stand down, Bishop.”
“She named the Lonestar State Killer,” Liam said. “No surprise there. He was never caught. People have suspected everyone from politicians to famous touring musicians. Nothing has ever come of it, though. Most people think he’s dead. There hasn’t been a new victim in over a decade.”
“He hasn’t killed recently that we know of,” the sheriff corrected. “You said it yourself. Serial killers don’t stop until they’re caught. They want the attention. What’s the point of committing a crime if they don’t get the credit? If they don’t get the fame? He’s either dead or he’s moved to another jurisdiction.”
Their voices echoed around her head, and she tuned out their conversation. They were including her and ignoring her at the same time—which was a disquieting feeling.
She had to consider the facts impassively, without judgment.
She had temporal lobe swelling, but the doctor had hinted there was more memory loss than accounted for by the damage. He’d said that the brain had a way of protecting itself from trauma. For some reason her mind had chosen to become a stranger to her.
Had she erased something important? If so—why? Was she protecting herself—or someone else?
Liam gestured with his phone, jolting her back to the present. “What if it’s a relative of a killer or a copycat? Someone connected to one of the subjects? Someone who didn’t like how they were depicted in one of Emma’s books?”
“It’s a solid theory,” the sheriff said. “Contact her publisher. See if she’s gotten any death threats lately. We can’t rule out anything yet.”
Anxiety leached the air from her lungs. The same frustrating questions bobbed to the surface. They were all shooting in the dark. What had she chosen to forget? Why had she chosen to forget? She was trapped in this nightmare with no way of knowing who wanted her dead.
Liam cast her a sharp glance, and she kept her face impassive. He was far too sensitive to her moods.
The sheriff jabbed a stubby finger at Liam’s phone. “What’s she working on now?”
“Doesn’t say.” Liam studied the screen. “Only says the book will be released next year. I can do some digging on that too. Maybe she’s writing about an unsolved case, and research on the new book stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
Emma huffed. That was putting it mildly. She tapped her heel in a rapid tattoo against the floor. People left traces of themselves behind all the time. She was more than a waterlogged phone and a totaled car.
What was more frightening? What lay before her, or what lay behind her?
“I need to see where I live.”
At her sudden declaration, the three men turned abruptly to stare at her.
“I need to look for notes,” she continued, a thread of steel in her words. “A computer. Anything.”
“You will.” The sheriff winked. “We just gotta wait until the doc says it’s okay for you to leave. He’s the boss.”
“No. I’m the boss,” she said through gritted teeth. “This is my life on the line.”
Liam turned the screen toward her. “I understand your frustration. There’s a lot we can learn about you without leaving the hospital. This is your latest release. See if that rings a bell.”
His silvery blue eyes were filled with sympathy, and she focused her attention on the picture. Why was she lashing out? He was only trying to help. The accident had left her emotions raw.
She pressed her fingers against her brow bones and willed the memories to return.
The book cover featured a black-and-white portrait of an overweight, balding man with a thick neck and dead eyes. The title was written in bloodred, melting script: Killer Instincts.
Her head throbbed, and the room dissolved. Her breathing grew shallow.
The three men in the room faded away, leaving Emma a mental vision of a grisly double homicide in vivid detail.
Panic clawed through her. The horrific details scorched her brain, and she rubbed her eyes until she saw stars, willing the image away.
If this was her past, she no longer wanted to remember.
Liam knelt beside her. “What is it? Did you remember something?”
“No. Yes. An image.” Just as quickly as it had appeared, the vision melted away. “It’s gone. It was a crime scene. There were two people who’d been shot. It was Christmas. There was a tree in the corner of the room. Lots of presents.” She was rambling. Capturing the details to give herself a sense of distance. “The dead man was wearing a blue flannel shirt. The woman was...”
The image of the woman was too horrible to repeat. Emma’s vision grayed around the edges, and the room seemed to tilt.
“Breathe,” Liam ordered gently, his calm voice centering her. “Think of something else. Replace the images with something good.”
She flashed to him leaning over her, the rain streaming from his dark hair, and an immediate sense of peace enveloped her. Liam had saved her. She was grateful. But to him she was simply another problem to solve. Another case added to the staggering workload that had worry lines flaring from the corners of his eyes.
She physically shook her head, clearing the memory, and thought of the rust-colored dog instead. The Duchess was a good substitute. Almost.
“That’s all I remember,” she said. “At first, I was there, but then I was able to separate myself from the images. It was more like I was looking at a picture.”
In that brief instant, everything had seemed vivid and real, and her emotions had responded in kind. She’d placed herself at the scene, but when she’d looked
