Killer Amnesia. Sherri Shackelford

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 be permanent.”

      “No.” Emma blinked rapidly, her eyes welling with tears. “No. This isn’t permanent. I won’t believe that. I can’t believe that.”

      Liam staggered back a step. Permanent?

      She scooted nearer and grasped his sleeve, her gaze imploring. At his brief hesitation, hurt flickered across her topaz eyes, and she looked away. She was attempting to put on a brave face and mostly succeeding.

      While he longed to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder—to offer some sort of gesture to make her feel less alone—he couldn’t. He’d learned his lesson the hard way. When emotions ran high, even the slightest gesture was liable to be misconstrued.

      Clearing his throat, he said, “We’ll contact your family. You shouldn’t be alone.”

      “My family?” Her eyes widened. “Do I have a husband? Children?”

      “No spouse or children came up in the initial background check,” Liam said quickly over her panic. “You’re self-employed, which means we haven’t been able to locate an emergency contact.”

      The doctor retrieved a stylus from his scrubs pocket and scribbled something on the tablet screen. “I’m keeping you a few days for observation.”

      Emma’s jaw dropped and quickly snapped shut again. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

      “I know,” the doctor said quietly. “But considering your condition, I can’t, in good conscience, release you. Think of your brain like an engine. This injury has run you out of gas. The only way to refuel is with rest.”

      “An engine?” She harrumphed. “I feel like I’ve been in a demolition derby. And what about my car? I’m assuming I won’t be able to drive it anytime soon.”

      “More like never.” Liam speared a hand through his damp hair. “The car is totaled. We’ll retrieve your personal effects and have it towed to the county impound while we investigate the accident.”

      “What about my parents? Siblings?” she asked, a quiver at the end of her question. “Is anyone looking for me?”

      “Your parents are deceased,” Liam said. There was nothing that might indicate her location on the internet—her address had been removed from all the usual locations, and even those databases that were less familiar to laymen, as though she was hiding from something. Or someone. “The closest relative is listed as a brother. We’re tracking him down. I’m not concerned we haven’t received a call about a missing person. People tend to drift off schedule over the weekend. Come Monday, we’ll probably get a hit.”

      Emma blinked rapidly, a myriad of emotions flitting across her eloquent features, and he wanted to kick himself. This case was different. She wasn’t the usual victim. Everything was foreign to her. Hearing the details of her life was like learning of her parents’ deaths for the first time.

      The doctor shot him a quelling glance. “You’ve had an eventful day, Ms. Lyons. It’s late. A lot of these details can wait until the morning. I’ll want to speak with you before she’s released, Deputy McCourt.”

      Liam gave a negative shake of his head. “Deputy Bishop is the lead on this case.”

      “I’d rather work with you.” Emma reached for him. “Do I have any say in the matter?”

      Fighting his better nature, he avoided her appeal. He was tired of living in limbo. Each day he was away from Dallas, he slipped further from his old life. If he accepted this assignment, he risked being torn between two responsibilities. The US Marshals were liable to call him back to testify any day now. He had no business digging into a troublesome and personal case when he might not be able to follow through.

      “Deputy Bishop was the first on scene,” Liam said. “It’s up to the sheriff to change the assignments.”

      His protective feelings for Emma didn’t play any part in the matter. Emotions were a luxury he couldn’t afford.

      “You didn’t leave me before,” she pleaded. “You can’t abandon me now.”

      A swelling pulse throbbed in his ears. His first partner had nicknamed him “The Pitbull” because once he got his teeth into a case, he locked his jaws and didn’t let go. Despite his personal doubts, he’d gone along with faking his death. The department and the Feds had invested too much time and too many resources to risk blowing the case.

      No matter the reasons, whether real or fake, his death had left unfinished business. If God didn’t answer prayers from guys like Liam, then he had to do the work himself. No amount of righteous conviction