“I love Mexican food!”
She loved anything and everything now that she remembered. As she strove to bring order to the rush of memories, Liam drove them to a quaint restaurant where they requested an isolated booth toward the back so they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Emma wanted to order everything on the menu even though she wasn’t certain she was hungry anymore. She finally settled on a combination platter and a sweet tea.
“I don’t know where to start,” she said the moment the waiter was out of earshot.
Liam smiled at her enthusiasm, but his smile quickly dimmed. “Give yourself a minute. How are you holding up?”
“Overwhelmed. I know I’ve only been out of commission for a few days.” She tapped her foot and traced the decorative pattern carved into the table. “You realize how fragile life is. Losing my memory was terrifying and isolating. Our whole lives are based on feelings and memories, and we’re nothing when that’s gone.”
“I disagree,” he assured her kindly. “Your personality was there. Your heart never changed.”
Her cheeks heated. “I wanted to thank you for what you said the other night. When you said that kids are jerks sometimes. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been carrying that burden.”
“It has to do with the dream, doesn’t it? What you said in the truck about you and your stepbrother discovering a body.”
“Yes. It was the first summer after my mom married my stepdad. I wasn’t getting along with Jordan. I was mad that she’d chosen to bring them here. This was our place. I wanted something that was just ours. Me and my...”
Her throat closed around the words. Her emotions were ricocheting all over the map.
“You and your dad?” Liam prompted.
“I barely remember him,” she managed to choke out as she wrestled for control of her sorrow. She’d dealt with all this stuff years ago. Except her feelings refused to listen to logic. “I’d ask my mom about him all the time. She’d tell me the story of how they met.” All at once Emma was spinning and spinning down a cyclone of memories. “They were in college together. He’d had leukemia as a child, but he’d been in remission for years. I was three when he was diagnosed again. He lost that battle. A few years later, my mom remarried, and she stopped telling me stories. I was so angry. I hated her new husband for that. I blamed him for taking my dad away from me. For taking my mom away from me, too.”
“That must have been rough.”
Her heart pitched, and she stared, unseeing, at the colorful sombrero quivering in the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan above them. “Things got better after I left home. When mom quit work, I didn’t think anything of it. My stepdad had to call me. She’d been diagnosed with something called pulmonary hypertension, only she didn’t want to worry me while I was in college.” Emma kept her head tipped upward, blinking to capture her tears. “I had to forgive him after that, didn’t I? He took care of her until the end. I can’t believe how naive I was. I thought they’d find a cure or something. I couldn’t believe God would take both of my parents.”
Sniffling, she studied the decorative pattern on the table once more. It seemed odd, revealing such tragic personal things in such a whimsical setting. Odd and somehow right, too. No matter what was happening in her life, the rest of the world was going about its business. That knowledge kept her grounded. Somewhere else, someone was having a perfectly mundane day.
Liam adjusted the napkin-wrapped silverware. “I’m sorry about your mom and dad.”
“What about your parents?” she asked, attempting to distract herself from the tears that were about to explode in her eyes. “Do they live in Dallas?”
“They’re gone.” Melancholy shimmered in his expression and gentled the rough texture of his voice. “My dad was never in my life anyway. By the time I was old enough to look for him, he was dead and buried. I don’t remember much of my mom. She overdosed when I was little.”
Though she felt guilty for asking, Emma was absurdly grateful for his honesty. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You have every right to ask questions. If I don’t want to answer, I’ll say so.”
“We all have crosses to bear, don’t we? At least I had my mom for a while. I have those memories.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I don’t know what’s come over me. The memories are all tangled with my feelings, and I can’t seem to separate the two.”
“Then don’t try. We’ll take things slow.”
“I can’t though, can I? He’s out there right now. Watching me.”
“Who? Can you remember—”
The waiter appeared, and they fell silent as he delivered their drinks.
When he’d vanished around the corner once more, Liam shifted in his seat. “Do you remember who ran you off the road?”
Her head started spinning and the edges of her vision turned gray, giving her tunnel vision.
“I don’t know,” she panted.
She felt as though she couldn’t breathe, as though she was suffocating.
“Relax. Stop trying to remember.”
It was a struggle even to speak. “Why can I remember everything else but not that day?” She refused to succumb to the anxiety welling inside her. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing is wrong with you.” Liam reached across the table and took her hand. “This is something I understand. I see it all the time with car accidents. People lose the period around a traumatic event. The doctor even warned us this might happen.”
Saying the word us was like tossing her an anchor against the drowning panic. Knowing he’d be by her side throughout the process eased some of her concerns. She’d be facing the unknown, but she wouldn’t be alone.
“Really? This is normal? You’re sure? Because I thought everything was going to be all right and now I’m not so certain. What if I lose my memory all over again?”
“You won’t lose what you’ve gained. I may not be a doctor, but I understand trauma. I promise you, what you’re experiencing is the most normal thing that’s happened all week.”
Liam released her hand and ran his finger down the condensation of his glass.
“How can you know for sure?” she whispered, afraid of saying the words any louder.
Afraid of slipping into the void once more.
“Because it happened to me once,” he said, his voice tired and a little guilty. “I lost a couple days after an accident.”
“What happened?” she blurted, her curiosity overtaking her good manners.
Rude or not, it was a natural question considering his admission.
“I was shot.” He motioned. “Left shoulder.”
Shock flowed through her. Emma searched him as though she might see a sign of his injury. “But you’re okay? I’m assuming you were on duty?”
“Yeah.” He took a drink from his glass, the surface of the water rippling in his unsteady hand. “I was working undercover. I thought I was good at my job, but I made a mistake. I did something that made someone suspicious.”
“What?” she asked automatically, then wanted to kick herself for asking such a pointed question. He was upset, and she was pushing him. “This is what I do for a living. I ask questions. It’s natural for me, but it can be...unsettling for other people.”
“That’s all right. It doesn’t matter what I did. I messed up. Gave myself away. It nearly cost the whole undercover operation.”
He appeared to regret the damage to his police work more than getting shot.
“You might have died,” she said.
His eyes were filled with regret and something else... Shame. “I didn’t.”
“I’m glad you didn’t, or I wouldn’t be here.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then appeared to change his mind. “You’re strong. Another couple of minutes and you’
d have saved yourself.”
She wanted to protest, to offer more assurance, but their entrées came. For the next few moments, they were distracted by the rituals of arranging plates and silverware and answering the waiter’s questions before Liam continued.
“I went through some rehab,” he said. “But I’m feeling good now. I got a job here to get my head straight.”
“How’s that working out for you so far?” The question came out more flippant than she’d intended, and she cringed. “I mean, are you fully recovered?”
None of this was coming out right. He’d been so closed off before, she wanted to wedge open his revelations. He’d mentioned unfinished business in Dallas, and it must have something to do with the shooting—with blowing his cover. Was he on some sort of forced leave? She wanted answers, but she sensed he’d said all he had to say on the subject, and the unknown left her frustrated.
“Things are coming together.” He cleared his throat. “I’m good.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
“It’s all right. Just don’t mention any of this to anyone else, okay?” Weary resignation etched his features. “No one here knows about my past, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
He’d given her insight into himself to ease her worry, and she appreciated his sacrifice. She didn’t doubt the admission had cost him. He was a master of detachment. He’d told her everything and, at the same time, he’d told her nothing.
He was right about the accident and the forgetting—none of that had altered her personality. She wasn’t the sort of person who lived easily with a mystery, and Liam McCourt would always be a puzzle with missing pieces. Not the sort of person she was compatible with.
Some women liked the simple, uncomplicated attraction of a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy. Emma wasn’t one of them. These past few days had left her raw and vulnerable, her emotions lacerated. They’d also given her a sense of perspective.
Life was too short to waste on casual affairs that were bound to go nowhere. Though she didn’t regret what had passed between them, she’d keep her distance from now on. She wanted someone in her life who was going to be there for the long haul, and Liam didn’t fit the bill.
Though her initial adjustment had been difficult, she adored Redbird. When she thought of Dallas, it was a jumble of suffocating summer heat and the crush of people. She’d discovered a kinder version of herself away from all that, and she wasn’t ready to give up on her better self.
She snorted softly. Not that he’d asked.
Eager to connect with Artie now that she recalled talking to him before, she concentrated on eating, or at least pushing her food around her plate as though she was eating.
Liam appeared to be doing the same.
He set down his fork and slumped against the back of the booth. “Let’s revisit what you remember. How do you know Artie?”
“After I moved back here, that summer was never far from my mind.” According to Jordan, she’d always been obsessed. Living near the scene of the crime had exacerbated her interest. “As a kid, my mom assured me that the woman’s killer had been caught. Mom wanted me to feel safe again. When I started looking into the case after I moved to Redbird, I realized things weren’t quite as cut and dried as she led me to believe.”
“How do you mean?” he asked, his face tight.
“They pinned her murder on a drifter. They caught him a few towns over, and he confessed. Except he’d gotten all the details wrong. I know, because I was there, and Jordan had seen her. We’d talk about that day sometimes. The man who confessed was wrong about what she was wearing, about the place she was found. I started looking into the statistics, and false confessions happen all the time.” Maybe Jordan wasn’t that far off in his accusations of her obsession. The case had consumed her thoughts. “I was doing some research at the Redbird Library, and the librarian suggested I contact Artie. He’s been digitizing all the archived issues of the Redbird Gazette. I never met him in person. I called him. He said he’d look for information on the case. Local stories. That sort of thing.”
Liam drummed his fingers on the table. “Are you working on anything else? Any other articles for the Dallas Morning News?”
“No. I was finishing up my book on the Lonestar State Killer.” She snapped her fingers. “‘Unforgotten.’ That’s the working title. I knew that word meant something. It’s been nagging me all week.”
“And nothing else? Nothing on Mexican cartels?”
“No.” She made a face. “That’s not my area of expertise.”
“Any death threats?”
“No.”
“Okay. So, you’re not writing about drug dealers and you haven’t gotten any death threats.”
She didn’t know why he kept focusing on the Mexican cartels. “No.”
“I found Duchess late Friday afternoon,” he mused. “About the time you’d have been packing to leave.”
As she recalled the earlier radio call, a wild surge of panic raced through her. “Artie is missing. That’s what Rose said. I was so distracted by getting my memory back, I forgot all about what kicked this off.”
“Someone requested a wellness check, that’s all. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything is wrong, just that he’s been out of touch. I’ll check his house again. See if there’s something that might indicate where he’s gone. Ask around.”
“I’m going with you,” she shot back.
Dread weighed on her chest. Now that her memory had returned, she was heavily invested in Artie’s fate, and she had a bad feeling about his continued absence. What had Artie discovered?
Liam didn’t argue. “Okay. But we do it my way.”
“Agreed.”
Artie was the key to unraveling the mystery surrounding who wanted her dead.
* * *
Liam suspected that Artie had either discovered something incriminating and scampered, or someone had silenced him. He was certain the dog was Artie’s. Call it instinct. There was no way Artie had left his dog unclaimed since Friday. Not a purebred with a litter of puppies on the way. Artie probably loved Duchess, and he wouldn’t let her wander around the town square.
Unwilling to disappoint Emma when she was celebrating the return of her memory, he kept his suspicions to himself. Since Bishop had already checked out the house, he was confident Artie had met his fate—whatever that might be—elsewhere.
The trip didn’t take long. Artie’s house was a battered white two-story shotgun a couple of blocks off Main Street. Liam peered through the windows, but the shades were drawn. He ran his fingers around the window flashing and was rewarded for his effort. Artie wasn’t very imaginative when it came to hiding his extra key.
Emma hovered behind him, and he faced her. “Wait in the foyer. I need to check the house first.”
Better to be safe than sorry, just in case Bishop had missed something.
“Is this legal?”
“Someone called in a wellness check. The door was open.”
“You opened it.”
“Details.”
He unlocked the door and his senses were assailed with a musty shock. The place was stacked floor to ceiling with books and teetering piles of newspaper, limiting his visibility. There were no telltale signs that Artie was here—alive or otherwise—though he wasn’t taking any chances.
Emma surveyed the jumble. “This is hopeless. How are we ever going to find anything in this place?”
“Wait here,” he ordered.
There’d been too many close calls in the past few days.
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. Go. Hurry up. If we’re going to find anything, we’d better get started.”
Liam made quick work of searching the house, but there was no sign of Artie. He allowed himself a moment of relief before returning downstairs. He’d half expected to discov
er a crime scene.
The man’s disappearance meant they had their work cut out for them. As many books as Artie had in the front room, there were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the space that must have served as a dining room when the house was originally built. Paths had been carved through the towering mounds in a bizarre maze.
The overhead lights were yellowed with age and barely brightened the task. Dusty, threadbare curtains hung in the windows, revealing shafts of light illuminating the swirling dust motes their movements kicked up. Cobwebs stretched between the corners of the ceiling and dangled to the tops of the shelves. The whole claustrophobic atmosphere was straight out of a horror movie.
Emma shuddered and shook her arms. “This place could be in an episode on a TV show about hoarders.”
“Look at this first.”
She followed him into the kitchen, and her eyes widened.
“Yep,” he said. “That was my reaction.”
Though the counters were crowded with more papers and books, the floor was immaculate. Checkerboard black-and-white floor tiles gleamed in the artificial light. A pristine dog bed took up one corner, with a bowl of food placed next to a basket of colorful chew toys.
The sorrow in her topaz eyes mirrored his own.
She shook her head. “He’s not coming back, is he?”
“This doesn’t look good.”
Her distress tugged at something deep in his chest. She brought out every protective instinct he had, and some he hadn’t known he possessed before now. When he’d alluded to his past in the restaurant, she hadn’t looked at him in disgust. Then again, he hadn’t told her the whole story.
She was still wearing his jacket. More like swimming in it. She’d rolled back the sleeves, and the hem nearly reached her knees. The sight was oddly intimate. He pictured them in high school, exchanging class rings while she wore his letterman jacket. Too bad he hadn’t been a letterman jacket kind of student. He doubted she’d have worn the ratty leather coat he’d inherited from one of his foster brothers.
Killer Amnesia: Faith In The Face 0f Crime Page 11