Killer Amnesia. Sherri Shackelford
the renovations from the occupied areas of the hospital. There were four additional patient rooms, two on either side of the corridor. The first door was propped open, and she caught sight of the gutted space with bare Sheetrock walls and colorful wires dangling from the ceiling.
The combined scents of paint and sawdust triggered a sense of familiarity, sparking a memory that was just out of reach.
She pressed her fists against her temples, willing the image to take shape.
Nothing.
Her head pounded from the futile effort, and she dropped her hands to her sides. Her brain might as well be this deserted wing of this hospital—empty, under construction and full of obstacles.
She took a step, and her toe caught on a stack of ceiling tiles. Yelping, she stumbled to the side, then stifled her amplified reaction with a hand to her mouth. Her ordeal on Friday had left her nervous about being alone in a deserted corridor, and for good reason.
Except she was being ridiculous. There were plenty of other people in the building. The security guard, Tim, was within shouting distance.
A thump sounded, and she froze. Cocking her head, she strained to hear over the raindrops pummeling the roof. Her imagination was getting the better of her.
She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, careful to avoid the stacks of tools and construction equipment piled near the floorboards. No wonder this area was supposed to be off-limits to patients. Still, she was thankful the nurse had made an exception. She wasn’t ready to face the possibility of running into someone she knew but didn’t recognize just yet.
The break room was compact with a row of vending machines on one side, and a sink, refrigerator and single-cup coffee maker on the other. The glare from the freshly waxed floor was almost painful.
“See Emma?” she said aloud to bolster herself. “Nothing bad could happen in a room this clean.”
Two tables, each set with four bright orange molded chairs, were scattered throughout the space.
Determined to get ahold of herself, she turned toward the coffee maker. A variety of single-serve cups overflowed the basket, and she chose one labeled Breakfast Blend. Fisting her hand around the plastic, she squeezed her eyes shut, welcoming the pain as the sharp edges dug into her palm.
This wasn’t fair. Why did she instinctively reach for the coffee she liked, but she couldn’t remember her own name?
Emma. Emma Lyons.
She snorted softly. Her name could have been Jane Doe for all the sense “Emma” made to her.
As she reached for the coffee maker, the room plunged into darkness. Blood rushed in her ears. She took a cautious step toward the exit, her hands outstretched like a blind, lurching mummy. Gooseflesh pebbled her skin.
Someone was in the room with her. She didn’t know how she knew; she just did.
“Hello?” she called, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Tim?”
Fabric dropped over her head and strong arms crushed her middle, robbing the air from her lungs.
She expanded her chest to scream, catching a mouthful of cloth and the unmistakable odor of bleach.
A hand clamped over her face, and she clawed at the arm circling her waist. The man was taller than her and stronger. Her fingers sank into the soft flesh of his arm. He jerked her against his chest, and her injured shoulder throbbed in agony. Her vision blurred.
Her attacker squeezed tighter, and her knees grew weak.
“Don’t faint on me,” a low voice growled near her ear. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Stars exploded at the edges of her vision, and she frantically stomped on the man’s instep while simultaneously jabbing her elbow into his solar plexus. He grunted, his grip loosening. She struggled away but he yanked her backward, trapping both arms against her sides.
“You’re a fighter,” her attacker growled. “I like that.”
Nausea threatened, and her rib cage ached. Her lungs felt as though they were going to explode. She lifted her foot to stomp again, but her attacker easily moved out of reach. The lack of oxygen was draining her. She had to breathe. Her muscles were weak and sluggish, refusing to cooperate.
An odd sense of calm invaded her chaotic thoughts. She was suffocating mere feet from safety. She couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not now.
Her pulse thrummed, and with a burst of fury, she wrested one arm free. Instinct took over. His eyes were vulnerable. She reached behind and above her, searching for his face, but the angle was too awkward. Tearing at the cloth instead, she managed to free her mouth.
As she let loose an earsplitting scream, a savage blow knocked her to the ground, and her attacker’s low whisper vibrated near her ear. “We aren’t finished yet.”
Liam stuffed his phone into his pocket and glared at the slumbering security guard. No wonder his calls had gone unanswered. A paper cup with the last dredges of coffee rested on the floor beside the chair leg. The caffeine wasn’t working.
He nudged the guard’s toe with his foot. “Wake up, sunshine.”
Tim slumped to one side. Liam’s pulse spiked, and he lunged. He lowered the bulky guard to the patterned tile floor. Pressing two fingers to the base of Tim’s throat, he noted a strong, steady pulse thumping beneath his fingertips.
The guard mumbled something, his eyes fluttering.
Liam glanced at the coffee cup. Had the guard been drugged? He showed all the classic signs of an overdose. Thankfully, the man’s pulse was normal and his breathing steady.
Confident Tim was in no imminent danger, Liam straightened and shouldered his way into the patient’s room. “Emma?”
The space was empty. The bed was neatly made. Forcing his emotions aside, he ran through the possible scenarios. There were no signs of a struggle. Though the hospital wasn’t exactly teeming with activity, it also wasn’t so deserted that someone could drug and kidnap Emma without being noticed. She must have been forced out with a threat. But how long ago?
A sound brought him around so quickly his shoes squeaked.
“What’s wrong with Tim?” A redheaded nurse in navy scrubs decorated with pink, frolicking kittens appeared. “What happened?”
She knelt before the prone man and began taking his vitals.
“I think he’s been drugged,” Liam said. “And don’t touch that cup.”
She gave a clipped nod. “I’ll inform the doctor.”
“Have you seen Emma? The patient in this room?”
“Went for coffee.” The nurse jerked a thumb over her shoulder without taking her attention from the prone security guard. “Down the hall. Last door on the left.”
A thump sounded. Liam glanced at the cordoned-off section of the hospital wing. Too early for construction workers.
Someone screamed, the sound cutting off abruptly.
A familiar rush of adrenaline surged through his blood. Retrieving his service weapon, he extended his arm. He crossed the distance and maneuvered through the plastic sheeting toward the sound.
“Emma!”
The corridor was plunged in darkness, and he reached for his flashlight before recalling he hadn’t yet replaced the one he’d lost two days ago.
“Emma!” he called again.
His shin cracked against a stack of construction supplies. Righting himself, he fumbled