Jacob was frustrated as hell at her for that. He was also wary, not to mention so damn curious, he thought he was going to lose it sometime soon. Did she remember? Or didn’t she? Sometimes, it felt like all he could do to keep himself from grabbing her and demanding she tell him the truth about what she recalled about the August before her seventh-grade year. What did she remember about a sociopath called Emmitt Tharp, about being kidnapped, of escaping with scrawny Jake Tharp? She’d say things sometimes that seemed like echoes from their past: her onetime phobia for dogs and knives, her wistful musings about someone from her past helping her get over her fear of heights, what she’d said tonight about the fire being for security, not just warmth. Those things, and so many other small mentions on her part, made him wild with speculation and curiosity. And yet . . . he’d searched her expression each time, and there would be no connection he could discern in her eyes between whatever hint she’d dropped and him—Jacob—the man present with her there in the moment.
