A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trus by Reagan Keeter (fiction novels to read txt) 📗

and Austin, who had only started flipping houses, could afford just one assistant. If Connor had been required to compete with other applicants, no doubt somebody with experience would have won out. But Austin had never gotten so far as to take applications. Connor had run into him when Austin was putting up flyers in the neighborhood, advertising the open position.

Actually, he hadn’t quite “run into him.” That would imply they had met by chance. In truth, Connor had seen Austin tacking a flyer to a telephone pole from his bedroom window and had gone outside to investigate. He came up on Austin from behind while the man was in the middle of hanging his second flyer on a pole even closer to Connor’s house.

It said “HELP WANTED. HOME RENOVATION. $30/HR. NEARBY” and included a phone number.

“What’s this about?” Connor said.

Austin turned around, startled. He was rail thin, hadn’t shaved in a week or more. His blue eyes were sunk deep into his skull. His stringy blond hair hung to his shoulders. Connor had thought he must be in his sixties (later he learned Austin was only a year older than his mother). But he also smiled easily and was wearing a white Polo shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans. “Sneak up on people much, do you?”

Connor smiled back. “Depends on the day.” He pointed to the flyer. “You’re looking for help?”

“It seems that way.”

“Why don’t you put an ad online?”

Austin turned back to the flyer, placed the staple gun on the last remaining corner, and fired, securing the flyer in place. “I wanted somebody local. Thought they might be more reliable. Are you interested?”

Connor frowned, thoughtfully. He wasn’t big on manual labor. Then again, any job he could get would put him on his feet all day, and at least this wouldn’t force him to interact with an endless stream of customers. “What would I be doing?”

“The flyer kind of spells it out, doesn’t it?”

“I mean specifically.”

Austin tucked the stack of flyers under one arm. “Look, I’ll level with you. I needed a change. My old job—I was on a computer all day long and I just needed to do something. So I bought this house on the cheap, figured I could get in on the whole flipping game. I’m not much of a handyman. But, I thought, ‘I’m smart. I can figure it out.’ So here I am—figuring it out. But it’s just too much for one person to do alone, and I need some help.”

“What did you do?”

“I was a software developer.”

Interesting, Connor thought, noting the similarity between Austin’s former career and his future one. “I don’t have any experience with all that renovation stuff.”

Austin shrugged. “Didn’t you just hear my story? Neither do I. But you’re young. You look strong enough. Could I count on you to show up?”

“Sure.”

“Then the job’s yours if you want it. I don’t feel like interviewing a whole bunch of candidates. Plus, even if I find someone with experience, I don’t have the time to find someone else if they flake out on me. You just do what I tell you to and we’ll be fine.”

Connor liked the way that sounded. Next year, he was going to have to spend all summer on the computer. Probably working long days to prove himself. Why not use these three months to do something completely different? He didn’t want to burn out like Austin had. Maybe a little variety now—something that would take him completely out of his element—would help him avoid it.

He pulled up to the house on Powder Lane and parked along the street. It was an old Victorian. Two stories. A wraparound porch. Probably a hundred years old, Connor thought, and it had all of the wear and tear that would come with a house of that age.

It was an ambitious project for any house flipper, and especially for one who had never flipped a house before.

Austin had already hired a plumber and an electrician to get the major systems working. And for the house itself, he had paid cash. So, aside from Connor, all it was costing him now was time, which he had plenty of, and materials, which he could afford.

The property didn’t have a garage, but it did have a shed at the end of the driveway that was big enough to be one. Austin planned to convert it.

Connor entered the front door. The house was quiet, which was not what he expected. “Austin?”

“Yeah. In here.”

Connor followed the sound of his voice to the living room. The bulk of the wall that separated that room from the kitchen had been punched through. Most of the drywall Austin had knocked down was spread across the kitchen tile—once white, now gray, and another thing they would eventually have to tear out. Dust was everywhere.

Austin was standing with his hands on his hips and looking at a part of the wall he had left standing. From where he was, Connor could see two-by-fours inside it that stretched from floor to ceiling. “I think this is a support beam. Probably better to leave it.”

He wiped his forearm across his brow, crossed the wooden floor in the living room to a cooler he had set in one corner. He pulled out a bottle of Dos Equis, used his Swiss Army knife to open it, then used the cooler as a chair.

After he took a long drink, emptying half the bottle, he looked at Connor. “You’re late.”

“I was just . . .”

Then he smiled, waved his hand dismissively. “I’m kidding. I’m just glad you decided to come. It’s been hard going without you. How are you holding up?”

Connor shrugged.

“They’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. Who are you staying with?”

“No one now. My Uncle Henry came up for a few weeks, but he had to go home. He asked me to go with him, but I think I need to be here. You know, just in case.”

“Where’s home?”

“Florida.”

“That’s a long ways away.”

“That’s why I couldn’t go,”