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.”
The Killing Fields. 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.
“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?