Killer Amnesia

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 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.”

TheKillingFields. 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.

FOUR (#u22cb81c8-7f93-5a06-ab89-82f66e3c9229)

“Wait a second.” Bishop’s close-set eyes narrowed. “You’re saying she brought a serial killer to Redbird? That’s a stretch, don’t you think?”

Emma started. A memory flashed in the deep recesses of her thoughts, just out of view, like a moth beating its wings outside a window.

“Easy there, Bishop.” The sheriff placed a hand on the deputy’s gaunt shoulder. “We don’t want anyone overhearing our little chat and starting a panic. We’re only speculating.”

A sense of urgency swirled through Emma’s head like billows of smoke. Chasing down the memories was like navigating through a dense fog.

Deputy Bishop bounced his fist against his knee. “Don’t those guys usually leave a calling card or something? This is a waste of time. I’m following up on the jealous boyfriend angle. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it’s the significant other. Probably he’s been threatening her for years.”

“Then why isn’t there a single report of a domestic altercation under her name in the police records?” Liam challenged.

“Maybe she’s been protecting him. Happens all the time, and you know it.”

Emma’s throat closed. The tick-tick-tick in her head grew louder. There was something just out of reach. She felt it. Helpless frustration curled her hands into fists. Her body was letting her down. Her mind was letting them all down.

The sheriff was staring at her as though she might volunteer an answer, and she shook her head. “I honestly don’t know if I have a boyfriend—jealous or otherwise. None of this sounds familiar.”

“Too bad your phone is waterlogged,” the sheriff said over a tired sigh. “We could at least contact the most-used phone numbers.”

“Assuming she remembers the code,” Bishop added with a smirk.

He didn’t believe she had amnesia. Sure, her story sounded far-fetched—even to her own ears—but the sheriff and Deputy McCourt believed her.

Or maybe they were simply better at hiding their doubts.