.

frost seep through the seat of her neon yellow jeans. She was wearing clothes that she would usually shun, but in order to pass as an anti-government, pro-drug, potential meth cook she needed to look the part.

      Tyler reappeared at her side, loading his weapon. He patted down his pockets, finding the cruiser keys in his jacket.

      He handed them to her. “You drive. I’ll provide cover from the passenger window as we leave.”

      He seemed more like his old self, cool and collected, and she thanked God for his presence there. She’d initially placed a 9-1-1 call and was told that the SWAT team would take quite a while to mobilize. That’s when she’d called Tyler. If he hadn’t responded so quickly, she’d most likely be dead by now.

      He jerked up his head to look back at the prison. “We got company,” he said, a note of urgency in his voice. “Let’s hustle.”

      Tyler crawled back into the car just as more shots from their pursuer rang out, shattering the back window and bringing their dangerous situation into sharper focus.

      The sheriff’s strong hand reached down and dragged her up onto the driver’s seat. “Drive,” he ordered. “And make it fast.”

      Joanna started the car, checking her rearview mirror to see a bald man walking toward them, gun in hand, his face creased in anger. He was known as Crusher within the gang because of his love of fistfighting. And she would now be on the top of his hit list.

      She floored the gas pedal, realizing in one agonizing moment that the back tires were embedded in soft earth, not yet frozen by the cool weather. The wheels spun wildly, sending chunks of mud flicking into the air.

      Adrenaline rocketed through her. “No! No! We’re not moving.”

      Tyler took aim out the window and fired a series of shots in quick succession. This sent Crusher retreating to the cover of the prison, and the sheriff began bouncing heavily up and down in the passenger seat.

      “This should give you some traction,” he yelled. “Try again.”

      She pressed the gas pedal, yanking the steering wheel sharply left and right. The tires slowly turned and managed to grip onto some hard ground. With a huge surge, they began moving and made it onto the cracked asphalt of the old prison road.

      Joanna let out a holler of relief. “We made it!”

      Sheriff Beck looked over at her as they raced from the prison. “Nice driving. What did you say your name was?”

      She still found it hard to believe he didn’t even know her name. They had almost kissed once, and now she was a stranger to him. “Joanna Graham, sir.”

      He turned and reached into the backseat, picking up his hat. “Is this mine?”

      “Yes, sir. You’ve been the sheriff of Yardley County for two years now.”

      He ran his finger over the gold badge mounted on the front of the hat. “Well, if everything you say is true, Deputy Graham, I’m going to need a lot of help filling in some serious gaps in my memory.”

      “Don’t worry, sir,” she said, taking a turn onto the freeway, which would lead them straight to the hospital. “I got your back.”

      He smiled. “I can see why I chose you as my deputy. You’re tough.”

      “I was already the deputy when you took over the sheriff’s job,” she said. “So technically speaking, I chose you.”

      * * *

      Tyler studied his reflection in the mirror in his hospital room. Signs of the last few years were evident on his face: a few more lines and wrinkles where none had been before. His sandy-colored hair was beginning to gray a little, still cut in his usual, closely cropped style. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, frustration bubbling up inside. Why could he remember nothing of the last seven years? Why was his last memory of the Dark Skies mission he had served in Afghanistan? What had happened since? He glanced down at his left hand. No ring. At least he hadn’t gotten married. Although maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He knew that he was approaching forty years of age by now. And yet he still remained a single man.

      After a CAT scan on his arrival at the hospital, Tyler had been given strong painkillers while his head wound had been stitched by a nurse, who spoke to him like she knew him well, although he didn’t recognize her at all. Since she had left him alone, the silence gave Tyler time to think. The effects of the drug were still at work, making him light-headed and woozy, and he wished that Deputy Graham were in the room with him, giving him answers to some burning questions.

      The door opened and a young doctor entered, carrying a medical chart.

      “Please sit down, Sheriff,” he said, signaling to the bed. “You look a little pale.”

      Tyler sat, leaning forward, hands clasped together in an automatic position of prayer. He found it comforting that one thing he most certainly hadn’t forgotten was his unwavering faith in God. This particular memory must be tucked away nice and deep where no amount of injury could reach.

      Tyler looked at the doctor and laughed. “Either I’m getting older or doctors are getting younger. You can’t be more than twenty years old.”

      The doctor smiled. “I’m twenty-five years old, Sheriff Beck. My name is Dr. Wayne Sinclair.”

      Tyler widened his eyes in shock. “No way! You’re Bob Sinclair’s boy from Addenbrook Farm? The last time I saw you, you were just out of high school. You look all grown up.”

      Dr. Sinclair sat on a chair and wheeled it with his feet across the floor. He positioned himself close to Tyler and took a tiny flashlight from his top pocket.

      “I left school a good few years ago, sir. I’m a newly qualified doctor now. The hospital’s attending physician thought that I should be the one to treat you because you’ve known me my whole life.” He shone the light into Tyler’s eyes. “We hoped it might trigger some recent memories. You came to my wedding last year. Do you remember?”

      Tyler shook his head. “I’m trying hard, but nothing’s coming back.”

      The doctor leaned away from his patient. “While we couldn’t detect any obvious damage on your brain scan, it would seem that your temporal lobe has suffered an impairment that can’t be seen. This would account for the loss of memory. I understand that the last thing you remember is being on a Navy SEAL mission in Afghanistan, right?”

      “That’s right, but I’ve been told this was almost seven years ago.” He gave a groan of frustration. “I just can’t get my head around it.”

      The doctor touched his arm in a calming gesture. “I understand. The brain is a highly complex piece of machinery, and we simply don’t know why or where your recent memories have gone. But the good news is that most memory loss of this type is recovered spontaneously. It’s just a question of time.”

      Tyler rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. The painkillers had dulled the throbbing of his temples, but he still felt them pulsating, like hammer blows through cotton balls. “How much time?”

      “That’s the million-dollar question,” the doctor replied. “Let’s give it a week or two, and if nothing seems to be coming back, we’ll start you on a program of rehabilitation.” He stood. “In the meantime, there’s somebody who’s been waiting anxiously in the corridor to see you.”

      “Who?”

      “Deputy Joanna Graham. I think it’s a good idea for you to speak with her. She might be able to help you recall some of the last few years you’ve been in Godspeed. It’s worth a try.”

      Dr. Sinclair opened the door to reveal Joanna leaning against the wall, hands shoved deep in her pockets, staring solemnly at the floor. Festive gold tinsel hung limply along the wall behind her, looking as sad and tired as she did. When she looked up and saw Tyler sitting in his hospital room, she gave him a broad smile, triggering a sensation