Killer Amnesia. Sherri Shackelford

      Pressing her fingers against the tick-tick-tick banging in her head, Emma stared at the photo on the deputy’s phone. “Are you certain I write about serial killers?”

      She desperately wanted to remember, but even the idea left her queasy. None of this made any sense. What sort of person immersed herself in the mind of a killer?

      Sheriff Garner squinted at the tiny screen. “I don’t have my glasses. You’ll have to explain what I’m seeing.”

      The sheriff’s nose was prominent below deep-set eyes and he had a charming Texas twang. Deep creases formed parentheses around a mouth that seemed to naturally relax into an easy grin. Though he gave the appearance of being laid-back, Emma doubted many people crossed him. She sensed he ruled with an iron fist in a velvet glove.

      Deputy Bishop guffawed. “It’s a book cover. What does a book cover have to do with anything?”

      Emma shivered and rubbed her upper arms. When the surly deputy had delivered her personal belongings, his attitude had been borderline rude. There was an expectant look on his face—a challenge in his questions. The encounter had left her with a feeling of unease she hadn’t been able to shake. He didn’t look well, either. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin was sallow.

      “You’re a true-crime writer. An investigative journalist with an impressive list of books to your name,” Liam said.

      He scrolled through the pictures and revealed a glossy publicity photo of her smiling face.

      Gazing in wonder at the screen, she managed a bemused, “That’s me?”

      She recognized herself from the face she saw in the mirror, though she didn’t recall posing for the picture.

      “Your last book was a number one bestseller,” Liam said. “And, according to your website, optioned into a movie.”

      “At least I’m a successful writer,” she said. “That’s something, I guess.”

      “Last year, you bought a house in Redbird,” he continued. “You moved here from Dallas. I thought I recognized you that first night, but I wasn’t sure. I finally remembered. You wrote a series of articles for the Dallas Morning News about the Killing Fields. I must have recognized you from your picture in the paper.”

      The Killing Fields. She should probably know what he was talking about, but the name meant nothing to her.

      Annoyance tightened her lips. She was heartily sick of playing catch up with her own life. “What are the Killing Fields?”

      “A stretch of Interstate 45 between Galveston and Houston,” Liam patiently explained. “It’s known as the Highway to...well, let’s just say it’s the preferred dumping ground for serial killers.”

      A break in the clouds drew her gaze toward the window. Streaks of morning sunlight glittered over the rain-dampened trees. There was so much beauty in the world, why had she chosen to immerse herself in darkness?

      “That sounds gruesome.” She shuddered. “Why was I writing about the Killing Fields?”

      “Twelve of the thirty bodies discovered on that stretch of highway in the past fifty or so years have been attributed to two different killers.” Liam glanced up from his phone. “But eighteen of those victims remain open cases. All women.”

      The knots in her stomach pulled tighter. “Eighteen? That’s...that’s insane.” She searched the faces of the three men for a mirror of her shock, but no one else seemed particularly outraged by the number. “Doesn’t that seem like a lot?”

      “We do what we can,” the sheriff said with a hard, forced smile. “But one out of every three murders remain unsolved.”

      “History tells us that serial killers don’t stop until they’re caught,” Liam added. “If our suspicions are correct, then he’s still out there.”

      Nausea welled in the back of her throat. He’s still out there.

      There was a chance that someone who’d killed before without mercy wanted her dead, and he’d nearly succeeded.

      Twice.