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, 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
