Killer Amnesia. Sherri Shackelford

story with clinical precision to detail. She was a writer, he’d done his homework over the weekend, and her skills showed in her meticulous observations.

      He’d spent the previous day researching her background. She was an investigative journalist who’d written a couple of novels. A sense of familiarity had nagged him, but he’d yet to discover why. Maybe she seemed familiar because she wrote about famous serial killers. According to her website, one of her books had been optioned for a movie.

      The bottle of water in her hand crackled in her tight grip. “When I heard your footsteps, I thought he’d come back.”

      Liam jutted his sore chin. “You’ve got a mean right hook.”

      As though noticing her hand clutching his for the first time, she snatched her arm away. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t let him catch me by surprise again. I don’t know what happened.”

      “You were acting on instinct.” He absently rubbed his thumb over the lingering warmth of her touch. “That’s good. That’s what’s supposed to happen. You’re tough. Sounds like you’ve had some self-defense training. Your body remembered what to do even though your mind may have forgotten the details.”

      She splayed her fingers and flexed them a few times. Her nails were neatly manicured ovals painted a dusky shade of pink.

      She smiled tremulously. “I don’t feel very tough.”

      “I’ve got the bruises to prove it,” he joked, drawing delicate color to her pale cheeks.

      Her gaze dropped, and she gasped. “You’re hurt! You’re bleeding.”

      He stretched out his leg. The second blow to his shin had opened the previous wound. The bleeding wasn’t bad, just enough to soak through the material. The damage had already dried and darkened.

      “It’s nothing,” he said.

      She leaned forward, her hands outstretched. “I should take a look.”

      “No,” he all but shouted, wincing as his voice echoed off the high ceilings. Exposing his leg felt too intimate. Too personal. He tucked his foot beneath the chair. “It’s fine. Let’s get back to what happened.”

      Despite the odds, she hadn’t given up. She’d been ready to fight with someone who was considerably bigger and stronger, and he admired her bravery.

      Emma stood and moved a distance away, her arms wrapped protectively around her body. As much as he regretted the continued interrogation, the time immediately following the incident was vital. They both needed a little distance, and telling her story was the best way to achieve some perspective.

      “Anything else you remember?” he asked.

      “Like I said, I didn’t get a good look at him. He was taller than me, but not by a lot. Maybe five foot eight or five-nine. Not an athlete. I jabbed him in the stomach.” She absently rubbed her elbow. “I didn’t hit a six-pack. I don’t even know if I can identify his speech because he only whispered. That’s all I can say.”

      A rumble of footsteps sounded in the corridor along with familiar voices. Bishop had arrived with the sheriff, easing the tension in Liam’s shoulders.

      Sheriff Bill Garner was the one saving grace that came from working in Redbird. With a solid history in law enforcement, the sheriff’s experience showed. He’d already served twenty years in the Fort Worth Police Department when he ran for county sheriff. That was ten years ago. Now he was ten years away from pulling two pensions along with his social security.

      Garner wasn’t coasting toward his retirement, either. He worked hard, and he made sure Bishop and Liam did the same. All in all, he made life in Redbird infinitely more palatable. If he had a penchant for assigning nicknames that were more mocking than endearing, and if he occasionally had a sharp edge in his voice, most folks gave him a pass.

      The sheriff spotted Emma and moved into the room.

      His gaze intense, he clasped one of her hands between both of his and leaned forward. “So you’re the little lady that’s been causing all the trouble.”

      “This is Emma Lyons,” Liam said. “Emma, this is Sheriff Garner.”

      “You don’t remember me, do you?” the sheriff asked, a bemused expression on his face.

      Her brows knitted, and she shook her head.

      “Probably for the best.” The sheriff chuckled. “Gave you a speeding ticket about a week ago.”

      “Oh, uh, I don’t remember,” she mumbled.

      The sheriff was showing his age with graying hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee along with a barely noticeable paunch, but no one could fault his endurance or mental prowess.

      “I wish I was here about something as simple as a traffic citation, Ms. Lyons,” the sheriff said. “Do you mind if I steal my deputy for a moment? We’re gonna let the doc check you out.”

      “I don’t need a doctor,” she said, her pose challenging. “I need to find out who wants me dead. I don’t know if it’s a boyfriend or some random crazy guy. Do you have any idea how that feels?”

      Liam arched a brow. He’d yet to see this side of Emma—and he liked the juxtaposition. She was vulnerable, but she was no pushover. The sheriff needed to be challenged once in a while. They all did.

      Garner sighed, his hands worrying the change in his pocket. “I’m real sorry, Ms. Lyons. We’re doing everything we can.”

      Bishop knocked on the door frame to catch their attention, his expression grim. “We’ve got a problem. The security cameras in the parts of the hospital under renovation aren’t wired yet. We’ve got no footage.”

      Liam’s stomach curdled. “I was counting on that footage.”

      “Don’t blame yourself,” the sheriff said. “This close to the highway, he was long gone by the time you gave chase. We’ll check the cameras on the other buildings in the area. Maybe they caught something. Looks like we’ve got someone familiar with breaking the law. Ms. Lyons is safe. That’s what’s important. You did good.”

      The sheriff’s vote of confidence fell flat for Liam. He’d been marking time on the job. With only nuisance calls and drunk drivers to fill his days, his skills had slipped. Not anymore. The sheriff dealt with the same mundane problems, and he stayed sharp. The fault rested with Liam. He’d been a good cop in Dallas.

      Redbird, for all its eccentricities, deserved a good cop, as well.

      Emma toyed with her bangs, brushing them from her forehead. “What exactly does that mean? Why do you think the person who ran me off the road is familiar with breaking the law?”

      “This isn’t someone acting in a fit of rage,” the sheriff explained. “This is someone who plans carefully. Methodically. Despite what you read in books, that’s not something we see too often. Most crimes are impulsive, which means people make mistakes. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

      Despite what you read in books... True crime.

      The nagging voice in the back of Liam’s mind surfaced with a howl. He’d previously discounted the connection as too far-fetched. In the absence of any other information, he had to reconsider the possibility.

      He reached for his phone. “I know where to start looking.”

      “Now that’s a loaded statement,” the sheriff declared. “Care to elaborate?”

      Liam scrolled through the glowing screen on his phone and flashed the picture that had sparked his initial suspicions. “She writes about serial killers. Someone with methodical patience wants to kill her. Doesn’t take a lot to connect the dots.”

      Pressing her fingers against