скачать книгу бесплатно
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.
“We can’t afford to ignore the possibility of a connection to one of her books,” Liam said, his callused finger tapping against the phone screen. “You specialize in Texas serial killers.”
Pictures flashed in her mind like slides across a screen. Faces. People she didn’t recognize though their features swam before her, taunting her. When she reached for the memories, they slipped further out of reach.
Disgust welled in her chest. Why couldn’t she remember?
“I don’t get the connection.” The sheriff tilted back his head and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “All those cases have been solved. Doesn’t make any sense. There’s no motive.”
“What about the Killing Fields murders?” Liam asked. “Eighteen additional bodies. That’s a lot of unsolved crimes. Maybe she stumbled onto something and worried someone.”
Her ears buzzed. All those women murdered and abandoned. Their deaths unsolved. What must that be like for their loved ones? For their families?
Hopelessly desperate, she appealed to Liam. “You read the articles. Did I name a suspect that might want to silence me?”
“Yeah, McCourt,” Bishop said, his nasal voice grating on her nerves. “You did your homework, right? What else can you tell us about her?”
Emma shrank from the deputy’s pointed appraisal. He was studying her more than helping her. As though he was cataloging her reactions and searching for inconsistencies.
The sheriff glared at him. “Stand down, Bishop.”
“She named the Lonestar State Killer,” Liam said. “No surprise there. He was never caught. People have suspected everyone from politicians to famous touring musicians. Nothing has ever come of it, though. Most people think he’s dead. There hasn’t been a new victim in over a decade.”
“He hasn’t killed recently that we know of,” the sheriff corrected. “You said it yourself. Serial killers don’t stop until they’re caught. They want the attention. What’s the point of committing a crime if they don’t get the credit? If they don’t get the fame? He’s either dead or he’s moved to another jurisdiction.”
Their voices echoed around her head, and she tuned out their conversation. They were including her and ignoring her at the same time—which was a disquieting feeling.
She had to consider the facts impassively, without judgment.
She had temporal lobe swelling, but the doctor had hinted there was more memory loss than accounted for by the damage. He’d said that the brain had a way of protecting itself from trauma. For some reason her mind had chosen to become a stranger to her.
Had she erased something important? If so—why? Was she protecting herself—or someone else?
Liam gestured with his phone, jolting her back to the present. “What if it’s a relative of a killer or a copycat? Someone connected to one of the subjects? Someone who didn’t like how they were depicted in one of Emma’s books?”
“It’s a solid theory,” the sheriff said. “Contact her publisher. See if she’s gotten any death threats lately. We can’t rule out anything yet.”
Anxiety leached the air from her lungs. The same frustrating questions bobbed to the surface. They were all shooting in the dark. What had she chosen to forget? Why had she chosen to forget? She was trapped in this nightmare with no way of knowing who wanted her dead.
Liam cast her a sharp glance, and she kept her face impassive. He was far too sensitive to her moods.
The sheriff jabbed a stubby finger at Liam’s phone. “What’s she working on now?”
“Doesn’t say.” Liam studied the screen. “Only says the book will be released next year. I can do some digging on that too. Maybe she’s writing about an unsolved case, and research on the new book stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
Emma huffed. That was putting it mildly. She tapped her heel in a rapid tattoo against the floor. People left traces of themselves behind all the time. She was more than a waterlogged phone and a totaled car.
What was more frightening? What lay before her, or what lay behind her?
“I need to see where I live.”
At her sudden declaration, the three men turned abruptly to stare at her.
“I need to look for notes,” she continued, a thread of steel in her words. “A computer. Anything.”
“You will.” The sheriff winked. “We just gotta wait until the doc says it’s okay for you to leave. He’s the boss.”
“No. I’m the boss,” she said through gritted teeth. “This is my life on the line.”
Liam turned the screen toward her. “I understand your frustration. There’s a lot we can learn about you without leaving the hospital. This is your latest release. See if that rings a bell.”
His silvery blue eyes were filled with sympathy, and she focused her attention on the picture. Why was she lashing out? He was only trying to help. The accident had left her emotions raw.
She pressed her fingers against her brow bones and willed the memories to return.
The book cover featured a black-and-white portrait of an overweight, balding man with a thick neck and dead eyes. The title was written in bloodred, melting script: Killer Instincts.
Her head throbbed, and the room dissolved. Her breathing grew shallow.
The three men in the room faded away, leaving Emma a mental vision of a grisly double homicide in vivid detail.
Panic clawed through her. The horrific details scorched her brain, and she rubbed her eyes until she saw stars, willing the image away.
If this was her past, she no longer wanted to remember.
Liam knelt beside her. “What is it? Did you remember something?”
“No. Yes. An image.” Just as quickly as it had appeared, the vision melted away. “It’s gone. It was a crime scene. There were two people who’d been shot. It was Christmas. There was a tree in the corner of the room. Lots of presents.” She was rambling. Capturing the details to give herself a sense of distance. “The dead man was wearing a blue flannel shirt. The woman was...”
The image of the woman was too horrible to repeat. Emma’s vision grayed around the edges, and the room seemed to tilt.
“Breathe,” Liam ordered gently, his calm voice centering her. “Think of something else. Replace the images with something good.”
She flashed to him leaning over her, the rain streaming from his dark hair, and an immediate sense of peace enveloped her. Liam had saved her. She was grateful. But to him she was simply another problem to solve. Another case added to the staggering workload that had worry lines flaring from the corners of his eyes.
She physically shook her head, clearing the memory, and thought of the rust-colored dog instead. The Duchess was a good substitute. Almost.
“That’s all I remember,” she said. “At first, I was there, but then I was able to separate myself from the images. It was more like I was looking at a picture.”
In that brief instant, everything had seemed vivid and real, and her emotions had responded in kind. She’d placed herself at the scene, but when she’d looked closer, she’d realized she was on the outside staring in. She obviously had a graphic imagination. An asset for a writer, no doubt.
“You didn’t remember anything more personal?” Liam asked. “A detail from your life?”
“No. Nothing.”
Her stomach lurched. After battling to remember, why hadn’t she summoned a memorable vacation or her first pet? Why not think of a friend or a relative—her brother, at least?
Her mind was like a row of empty picture frames. A cold gathering of backgrounds with no sentiment and no recognizable faces, as though someone had stripped away her past, leaving only blank canvasses.
“Hmm.” The sheriff rubbed the back of his neck. “A couple killed around Christmastime. Ring any bells, McCourt?”
