Killer Amnesia. Sherri Shackelford
and gaunt with thinning sand-colored hair, Bishop was openly gunning for the sheriff’s job in the next election. Given what Liam had seen of the deputy’s job performance, the guy had a better chance of getting kicked by a snake.
The man pointed a slender arm. “Down there. Got a brief look at her before the rising water drove me back.”
A beige Fiat 500 rested upright in water from the culvert, rain streaming through the shattered sunroof. Liam recognized the car—the model was distinctive—but he didn’t know the driver.
“Single fatality,” Deputy Bishop shouted over the storm. “Female.”
Judging by the crumpled exterior, the car had rolled at least once before landing at the bottom of the ditch. The headlights cast a weak, shimmering beam through the rising water, and Liam caught a glimpse of the motionless driver.
“Any identification?” Liam asked.
“Rose is running the license plates.”
Liam always trusted that God had a plan. Sometimes that plan was human intervention. “I’ll check it out.”
“You can’t. You’ll be washed away by the current.”
“Turn on your searchlights,” Liam called over his shoulder.
He shucked his utility belt but kept his police two-way radio clipped to his shirt collar. Rummaging through the rear compartment of his vehicle, he retrieved a rope, then slammed the hatch shut. He paused a moment before deciding to forgo the backboard. Fire and rescue were better equipped to retrieve the body.
Bishop’s truck was parked with the nose angled toward the ditch. After securing the rope to the bumper, Liam tied off and backed toward the vertical grade.
“Take up the slack,” he called.
Bishop nodded.
The drop wasn’t far, but it was steep. Liam’s boots sank into the muddy embankment, and his arms strained against holding the bulk of his weight. Moisture had already soaked through his collar and saturated his uniform. Though it was early spring, the rain was just shy of sleet. He could have left his slicker behind for all the good it was doing him.
His gloved hands slipped, and he lost his grip. The slack broke free. He plunged the last few feet into icy, calf-deep water, his hip bumping painfully into the car’s rear fender. Stumbling and slipping, he managed to fight the current.
“Thanks for keeping the slack, Bishop,” he mumbled darkly.
His feet went numb almost immediately. The rain was coming down too fast, turning runoff from the culvert into a shallow, raging river. The water reached his knees and wrenched at his balance. Gripping the car roof for purchase, he squinted through the dim glow of Bishop’s searchlights and wrestled his way to the shattered driver’s window.
Submerged to the waist, the woman’s lifeless body was slumped over the deployed airbag. Her right arm bobbed near the gearshift, palm up, the fingers curled, and her dark hair hung limply around her downturned face. Papers drifted in the current, escaping through the broken passenger window.
Liam’s throat tightened. Even without seeing her face, he sensed she was about his age.
He offered a brief prayer for her and the family she left behind.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he grasped her shoulder and pulled her upright. Her head lolled backward, and her dark hair plastered wetly across her ashen cheeks. He aimed the beam of his flashlight toward her face. Blood oozed from a gash near her temple, and a purple bruise darkened one eye.
He brushed her hair aside. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen her before. Maybe he’d stood behind her in line at the supermarket. A likely occurrence in a town the size of Redbird.
Her eyes flew open.
Adrenaline spiked through his veins, and the flashlight slipped from his fingers. She gulped for air, her chest heaving, then feebly groped the front of his coat, her expression panicked.
“H-help me.”
He’d caught a brief glimpse of her eyes. A unique shade of amber topaz.
Catching the woman’s hands, he pressed them between his gloves. She wasn’t dead, but she was going to be if they didn’t get her out of this water soon.
“It’s all right,” he soothed. “Fire and rescue are on the way.”
“Wh-who are you?” Her teeth chattered.
The question caught him off guard for a moment. That was the problem with being a dead man—remembering his cover name didn’t always come easy.
He sluiced the moisture from his face. “I’m Deputy Liam McCourt with the county sheriff’s department. What’s your name, ma’am?”
“My name is...” An expression of abject terror descended over her features. “I don’t know. I d-don’t know what my name is! Wh-what’s happening to me?”
A fresh sense of urgency filled him. Injuries from car accidents were notoriously deceptive.
“It’s all right.” He cupped his hand behind her head, and she turned her face into his palm. “Don’t be afraid.”
He caught sight of Bishop’s silhouette outlined by the searchlights and depressed the button on his two-way. “Check on fire and rescue. They’re late.”
“I’m c-cold,” she managed to say between chattering teeth.
Something wasn’t right. People sometimes forgot the events leading up to an accident, as though the trauma bleached their memories, but he’d never encountered someone who’d forgotten their own name.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get you out of here.”
“Promise?” She clutched the lapel of his jacket. “Please don’t lie to me.”
Don’t lie to me.
The past six months melted away, and he was no longer standing in the freezing rain. He was suffocating in the sweltering Dallas heat. His memory had taken him to when he was working undercover in the Serpent Brotherhood, playing the same game he’d perfected in foster care. He was pretending to fit in. Pretending to be something he wasn’t. Not even Jenny had seen through his act, and they’d briefly attended grade school together.
For once Liam had been grateful the foster system had bounced him from family to family. Jenny hadn’t known he’d gone to college before joining the Dallas PD. The few people who remembered him from those days believed he was just another kid from the old neighborhood—all grown up and going nowhere.
Are you a cop? Don’t lie to me. Jenny’s words echoed in his mind. Her boyfriend, Swerve, was the lead fixer in the gang and took care of problems by making them disappear. Swerve was responsible for more than one missing person in the Dallas area. He’d gotten agitated during the exchange, and he’d accidentally pulled the trigger. The bullet had carved a path through Liam’s left shoulder, shattering his clavicle before slicing into Jenny’s neck. She’d bled out before the paramedics had arrived.
The scene was a mess, and Swerve thought he’d killed them both. The US Marshals had done the rest. They’d given Liam a new last name and tucked him away while the case wove its slow path through the court system.
A broken tree limb slammed into Liam’s shin, ripping his feet from beneath him, forcing him back to the present. He caught hold of the door handle and dragged himself upright, then wrapped his arm through the open window, bracing his body. A sharp metal edge dug painfully through his sleeve.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Keeping her head supported with one hand, he gently touched the lump on her forehead. “Can you tell if anything is broken?”
“I d-don’t k-know. I don’t th-think so.” She