Killer Amnesia. Sherri Shackelford

grating voice sounded from the microphone attached to Liam’s collar. “Delayed. Driver didn’t know the road was washed out.”

      “Tell ’em it’s urgent.”

      “Hold your horses. Not gonna change things for the victim.”

      “She’s alive, Bishop.”

      The momentary shock of silence was deafening. “That can’t be. I checked. I didn’t feel a pulse.”

      No use arguing about the details when there was a life hanging in the balance. Who knew what other injuries she might have sustained, and she was at risk for hypothermia.

      “There’s a backboard in my truck. Send it down,” Liam ordered.

      “Ten-four,” came the quiet reply.

      The car lurched against the tide of rainwater, and his heart slammed against his ribs.

      She didn’t have time to wait for fire and rescue. “We’re getting you out of here, ma’am, but you’ll have to work with me. Can you do that?”

      He risked exacerbating her injuries by moving her, but she was going to drown otherwise.

      She gave a hesitant nod. The car shifted again, and she bolted upright, grasping his arm.

      “Yes,” she gasped. “H-help me.”

      His shoulder protested the abuse, and he grimaced.

      The woman stilled. “What’s wrong? Are y-you all right?”

      “It’s nothing,” he replied gruffly.

      His feet sank deeper into the mud, and his gut churned. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep his footing. He didn’t know how much longer they had before the water swept away the car.

      The woman took another deep, gulping breath. “I trust you.”

      Her declaration knocked the breath from his lungs. The last person who’d trusted him, Jenny, had paid the ultimate price. He’d prayed to God plenty growing up, especially during the worst times, and he’d begged God to save Jenny that day.

      He’d gotten the same answer he’d grown accustomed to: silence.

      He didn’t resent God for ignoring his prayers, instead, he’d learned that if a man never asked for anything, he was never disappointed.

      Lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder rattled the shattered windshield, and her grip on his arm tightened. His past no longer mattered. What mattered now was this woman’s safety.

      “Someone f-forced me off the road,” she said. “S-someone tried to kill me.”

      She found herself in a freezing nightmare of throbbing pain. Blood pounded inside her skull. Her other pains were too numerous to count, and the frigid rain had her bones aching.

      The water was rising.

      Her heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn’t staying in this car another minute.

      “Did you hear me?” She tried to shout over the rushing water, but the words came out warbled. “About the accident?”

      “I heard you,” the deputy said, a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get a description of the vehicle and the driver once you’re squared away.”

      “A t-truck, I th-think.”

      She attempted to reconstruct the moments before careening off the road, but the images at the edges of her vision blurred.

      Someone had tried to kill her, and they’d nearly succeeded.

      Her eyes must have drifted shut, because the next instant, Deputy McCourt was gently nudging her. “Stay with me.”

      He was somewhere in his early thirties and handsome in an earnestly boyish kind of way. The weak beam of light from the highway above wasn’t strong enough to see his eyes, but she had a vague impression they were blue. His beard was dark, and she assumed the hair beneath his brimmed hat matched. He was tall—his shape hidden beneath his enveloping slicker.

      The car shifted, and she frantically reached beneath the water to unfasten her seat belt. The mechanism released, and the sudden freedom sent pain shooting through her shoulder.

      She clutched her upper arm and groaned.

      “What’s wrong?” The deputy steadied her through the broken window. “What happened?”

      The strap had been cutting into her collarbone, but she’d been too preoccupied by everything else to notice. “I’m f-fine. Just the seat belt.”

      Her lips were going numb, making speech difficult. She pressed her palm against her throbbing head and winced.

      The deputy broke the few remaining glass shards from the surrounding window frame. “You’ll have to crawl out. I’ll help you.”

      “A-all right.”

      As she drifted in and out of consciousness, the next few minutes passed in a blur. Strong arms lifted her from the car’s wreckage. The pain came in gasping waves. Even the slightest movement jolted her battered limbs. Once the deputy had positioned her on the backboard, she struggled feebly against his insistence on checking her for additional injuries. She was fine. She could walk. As he secured her upper body, a shaft of pure agony jerked through her.

      “Sorry,” the deputy mumbled. “You have a dislocated shoulder.”

      She blinked rapidly through the rain streaming over her face. “Can you put it back?”

      “Take a deep breath.” He hovered over her, his gaze intense. “This is gonna hurt.”

      His sharp movement caused an anguished cry, but the relief was almost immediate.

      “You’re right,” she gasped. “That hurt.”

      At least she’d learned one thing about herself—she appreciated honesty.

      He brushed the back of his gloved hand over her temple. “Sorry.”

      Stepping away, he slipped out of his raincoat.

      She held up a restraining hand. “I’m already soaked. Y-you need that more than I do.”

      “No arguments.” He leaned over her, adjusting the ties near her head, his body shielding her from the worst of the rain. “You can at least pretend like I’m in charge, ma’am.”

      “Don’t call me ma’am,” she said weakly, wondering if he’d even hear her words over the rain. “Makes me feel old.”

      His expression shifted. “What else should I call you?”

      She probed the edges of her memory but met only an endless blank wall.

      A sudden terror took hold, as though she was standing on the edge of a void. Her lungs constricted, and she couldn’t breathe. She desperately searched for something that made sense. She knew the man standing above her was a deputy. She recognized the insignia on his hat. Clinging to that one simple fact, she inhaled deeply. If she followed familiar items, they’d lead her out of this shadowy maze.

      He clasped her hand. “Never mind. Don’t try and remember. We’ll stick with ma’am for now.”

      The deputy made a signal with his hand and the backboard heaved. She grimaced, attempting to hide her discomfort.

      “You’re doing great,” he said, his face a blur in the falling rain. “Not much longer.”

      “I don’t have anything else planned.”

      He grinned. “Keep that sense of humor.”

      Images raced through her head. She recalled the steady swish of the windshield wipers—the crash of thunder.