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) 📗

“I love you, too.” Byron waited for Ethan to let go, and then added, “I wish I could stay longer, but I really have to get back. Oh, but don’t forget to check your closet for a couple of suits I left you. I had to guess the size. If they don’t fit, get them hemmed. You start work on Monday.”

After Byron was gone, Ethan explored the drawers and cabinets in the apartment to see what else his father had left him. He found dishes and silverware, all of his old clothes, a small assortment of tools, spare light bulbs, his favorite books and CDs (stacked and alphabetized), and other practical and personal items. Then he tried on the suits—they were slightly big—and walked the Midtown streets until he found an alteration shop that could fix them.

He was trying to stay busy—primarily to keep his mind off killing Norma. He had just been released from the hospital and, even from as far away as Georgia, he would be a prime suspect if anything happened to her just yet.

But as the weekend began, questions like Why is Pop still married to that woman? and Why does she have to be such a bitch? spun in his head until he could no longer make sense of his thoughts.

“You must be Ethan Lancaster,” said the bank manager when Ethan arrived Monday morning. Once Ethan got out a “Yeah,” the manager turned and led Ethan toward a private office.

The bank was vast and open, with high, vaulted ceilings and ornate columns carefully spaced so as not to crowd the lobby.

The manager had sallow skin and baggy eyes that suggested he didn’t sleep enough. His hairline had receded to his ears, and he carried far too much weight at his belly, Ethan thought. He turned halfway to the office and shook Ethan’s hand without stopping. “I’m Mr. McDonald.” Ethan assumed that Mr. McDonald was rushing because he had something important to do soon. Later, he would discover that Mr. McDonald was always rushing—it was one of the things Ethan would come to hate about him. Another was that he wouldn’t tell anybody his first name; he insisted all the employees call him “Mr. McDonald.”

That was fine with the staff when he was in the room. But the rest of the time they called him Ronald McDonald, or “the clown” when they were particularly irritated with him.

“And what should I call you?” McDonald asked, already at his office door. “Ethan? Mr. Lancaster?”

“Ethan’s fine.”

“Please, have a seat.” McDonald gestured toward the two plush leather chairs on the opposite side of his desk.

Ethan did as the bank manager suggested.

“Your father’s a good man. Good man, indeed. That’s why I hired you.”

“Because my father’s a good man?”

“Exactly. Only we need to go over a few things before we go any further, okay?”

“Like what?”

McDonald sat down behind the large marble desk. He carefully but quickly explained the pay scale and the benefits, and Ethan agreed that it all sounded fine. “When do I start?”

“Hold your horses. We got to get you trained first.”

“When do I do that?”

“Today,” he said, and handed Ethan a memo with an address and driving directions on it. “Training starts in thirty minutes.”

Ethan glanced over the directions. “I don’t have a car. How am I supposed to get there?”

McDonald shook his head with frustration. “You got a license?”

“Yeah.”

McDonald reached into his pocket to remove a key ring. He worked the car key off it. “Just for today,” he said, sliding the key across the table. “But don’t go thinking I’m soft. If you weren’t a Lancaster kid, I wouldn’t even consider it. But tomorrow you’ll have to find your own way there.”

NOW

GINA WAS ASLEEP when Paul died. So was he. His head was resting in her lap, and her arms were folded over his chest. She had stayed awake as long as she could. Hours had passed since he last lost consciousness before her bobbing head dropped, and her heavy eyelids closed.

When it happened, he was dreaming about being at home, in bed. His covers felt like lead. The room was cold. He opened his eyes to see the wall clock. Everything was blurry. He couldn’t tell what time it was or see the model soldiers he had spent years collecting and painting.

Worse than that, though, he couldn’t move his legs. He pulled back the covers to find his ankles handcuffed to the bed frame.

He yanked his knees toward his chest in hopes of breaking the frame and escaping. But he couldn’t get the leverage he needed.

Then the dream crumbled, and nothingness was all that remained.

THEN

THERE WERE SUPPOSED to be eight students in the class. But by 9:45 a.m., only seven had arrived. Martin took roll and identified Ethan Lancaster as the missing student. He wasn’t surprised that one hadn’t arrived yet. Since he had started training new tellers two years ago, he had learned that stragglers were to be expected. He had also learned that stragglers rarely made it through the training; if they did, they usually quit within the first year.

“Let’s go ahead and get started,” Martin said, and then passed around a stack of documents on credits and debits.

The students, dressed in professional attire, were seated at a long table in the middle of the room. Along three of the walls were workstations, complete with software intended to simulate real customer transactions.

Martin loosened his tie—the converted conference room was always too warm—and wrote “credits” and “debits” on the whiteboard behind him.

Ethan leisurely cruised down Eighth Street until it connected with Norlake Avenue and took him to National’s main downtown building. He didn’t give a thought to his tardiness—he didn’t care. Nor did he care when he dinged the door of the new Ford he parked beside.

Martin stopped mid-sentence when Ethan came in. He watched the new student casually slip off his coat, fling it over a