You Can't Hide Theresa Sneed (top 10 non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖

wasn’t sure she liked his attitude, and the nerve of him, taking a picture with her in it.

As if he read her mind, he pushed her head behind the book, turned the page, and took another picture. “Listen, if you can’t give the book up, then I have to do this instead.” He turned the page, and took another picture.

“You’re not very bright,” she said, with a touch of sarcasm. “It’s going to take days for you to get those pictures back.” And there was that annoying look again.

“Ever heard of a home developing lab?” he said, snidely.

“Oh.” Okay, that made sense. She had a friend that had a lab at his house. His pictures were pretty good too, and he had them the day he took them, not like this wait-until-they-are-developed thing. She looked around the book. “Are you done now?”

“Not quite.” He snapped a picture of her.

“Hey!”

He grinned. “Now, I am.” He turned to walk away, without even a thank you, or a sideways glance.

“You can’t take a picture of me.” She glared at him.

He looked over his shoulder. “Wrong. I just did.”

“Oooo.” She should snatch the camera right out of his hands and rip the film out. That’s exactly what I’m going to do, she thought, jumping up. She glanced back at her stack of books, and then up at him. He pushed open the doors and then left. Why do I get the best ideas too late? She waved at Mary to come over to her table. “Can you watch my books for five minutes?”

Mary shrugged and then sat down at the table.

“Thanks, Mary. I’ll be right back.” Hurrying to the door, Karen pushed it open, and then scanned the campus outside of the library. There he is. She came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and stared at her. She held her hand out.

“What?”

“Give me the camera.”

He grimaced. “No.” He held it high above her head.

“You took my picture.”

“Big deal.”

“Yeah. It is. I didn’t give you my permission to take my picture.”

“Yes, you did.”

What nerve. “No, I did not.”

“You’re a student here, right?”

She frowned. Where was he going with this?

“Which means I have the right to take your picture.” He pulled out a student journalist badge.

“You’re a reporter?” Figures. “And just what do you need my picture for?”

“That,” he grinned, “is privileged information.”

“It’s abuse of the system.”

He laughed, his dark blue eyes filling with mirth. “Again, that’s for me to know, and for you to find out.”

Her lips twisted to the side. “A reporter that spews clichés—strike two.”

An eyebrow rose. “Before I strike out,” he grabbed her arm, “let’s get some coffee.”

She pulled away. “I don’t think so.”

“Then don’t think at all.” He smirked. “It’s better than knowing.” He gestured toward the student café across from the library.

What? She had to think about that. Wait, that’s exactly what he meant, not to think too much. Her shoulders fell forward. “Um. Tea. I prefer tea.”

“Tea? You don’t sound English. In fact, I’m betting you’re American.” He took her elbow and led her to the café. “Right?”

“How’d you know?”

He rolled his eyes. “Shoes, accent, and the Go USA sticker on your book.”

What book? Oh, her books. “Uh!” An exasperated breath left her throat. “I left Mary with my books.” She turned to the library.

She heard his voice behind her. “I’ll be waiting, USA.”

She didn’t turn back around. Waiting? She picked up her pace. Hardly. No way was she going to return to the café, but all the way back into the library, she couldn’t shake his memory—his dark hair, blue eyes, and irritating personality. She thanked Mary, hoisted the books into her arms, and left the library from a side entrance, rushing straight to her small flat.

Normally, she wasn’t a rude person, but for some reason, she knew she had had to escape him quick—get him out of her mind, think only about—the phone rang—“Todd.” It had to be him. When it was, she blubbered his name, “Todd,” filled with relief. “Oh, you have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice.”

“I’m pretty glad to hear your voice, too. You’re not going to believe what just happened.” His voice resonated shock.

She’d wanted to tell him about her rotten morning, but something in his voice troubled her. “What’s wrong, Todd?” She glanced at her watch. Wait, it had to be 4:00 am in LA. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“No.”

“Sit down,” he said.

Okay, now she was sufficiently freaked out. “Okay, I’m sitting down. What’s wrong?”

“Jack found his sister. He found Elle.”

“What?” She jumped up. Her heart went to her throat. Elle had been missing for five years. Was she okay? Was she . . .? She couldn’t bring herself to ask, and sank back down, waiting for Todd to reveal the truth.

“It’s all over the news. A sheriff held her hostage—well, kind of hostage.”

Relief washed over her. “What do you mean, ‘kind of hostage’? She let him?”

“She didn’t remember anything, Karen. She didn’t know who she was. She has amnesia, or at least, had it while captive.”

Wow. “And now?” Karen held her breath.

“Her memory is coming back slowly.”

“Oh,” she breathed out. “Oh, my.” Tears rolled down her face. “That is the best thing I’ve heard— ever.”

“So, you sounded kind of upset when you answered the phone. Is everything okay?”

Was everything okay? Everything was perfect now. She had all but forgotten the young man from the library. With news of her best friend being alive, there wasn’t room for whatever his name was in her mind. Wait. What was his name?

Later that evening, Karen stood in line at the movie theater. A lame date for someone out by themselves. She’d called all of her UK friends, but they wanted to party, and she didn’t. That was high school stuff, and anyhow, as the daughter of an alcoholic, it was the last thing she wanted to do.

A movie sounded good—a slow-paced, easygoing show. She glanced up at the