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) 📗

a fresh coat of paint. Rusty wind chimes hung from the ceiling. Olivia knocked. Her mouth went dry. Her jaw tightened. She was on edge. But it was the kind of edge she liked being on. These were the adrenaline-fueled moments that made the job worth doing, right up there with sweating a suspect in the interrogation room.

There was also a part of her that hated it. That part of her worried every day she might not come home, and it worried her on days like this more than most. She worried what her daughter would do without her, whether her ex would buck up and be a real father. As things stood, it didn’t seem like he could be a father at all—just missing the gene, her mom said—and she hoped that at tomorrow’s custody hearing the judge would agree.

She pounded on the door, announced herself as police. Unconsciously, her right hand went to the gun holstered at her waist. She snapped open the strap that secured the weapon in place. Normally she kept her gun in a shoulder holster, but that wasn’t convenient when she was also wearing a bulletproof vest. Which was just as well, since it was harder to get to, and if Broderick Hansen—that was the name associated with the license plate—came out shooting, the time it took her to pull her gun might make the difference in whether or not she lived.

She heard the deadbolt turn. Her fingers closed around the gun’s handle. The door opened. Before Olivia could even see who it was, she was demanding to speak with Broderick.

“Hold your horses,” said the man who had opened it. He was wearing just a robe and had to be seventy, at least, Olivia thought. His eyes darted between her and the two uniformed officers. “What is this about?”

“Sir, we need to speak with Broderick—”

“I heard you. I’m not deaf.”

“Yet,” said a woman as she came up behind him. She was wearing a faded blue nightgown and looked just as old.

Olivia could tell she thought she was being funny and had no patience for it. “Sir!”

“I’m Broderick Hansen.”

This was not the man on the CCTV footage. Even though she had only seen him from the back, Olivia was sure of that. This man had the wrong build, the wrong posture, the wrong hair. She doubted they were even the same height.

“Sir, do you have an ID on you?”

“Sure.” He reached toward his back pocket. Olivia imagined he had a gun of his own. She could see him pulling it in her mind’s eye, braced for the chaos that would follow. Her fingers, which were still wrapped around the handle of her own weapon, moved slightly so that her pointer was on the trigger.

She was about to tell him to slow down, even though he was already moving slowly, when she saw the leather corner of a wallet appear from behind him. He opened it, took out his license, and held it up so she could see.

The name on the license was indeed Broderick Hansen.

Oliva relaxed a little. She let go of her gun, let her hand fall to her side. “Has anybody borrowed your car recently?”

“No.”

“I wish they would,” the woman said. “Borrow it and keep it as far as I’m concerned.”

“So the Mustang has been in your possession the whole time? You’re sure?”

“What Mustang?” the woman said, first to Olivia and then to Broderick. “Did you go buy a Mustang without telling me? Are you some kind of dummy? We can’t afford a car payment right now. Maybe if you got a job—”

“Who’s going to hire me at my age?”

“Mr. Hansen,” Olivia said, to direct the couple’s attention back to her. “Are you telling me you don’t have a Mustang?”

“I wish.”

Olivia recited the car’s license plate number.

“What about it?”

“That’s not your license plate?”

“That’s my license plate. One of them. So what?”

“So, you just told me you don’t own a Mustang.”

Broderick almost laughed. He waved dismissively at Oliva. “That’s no Mustang.”

“Excuse me?”

Broderick turned to the woman next to him. She hadn’t stopped glaring at him since the Mustang had first been mentioned. He didn’t seem to notice. “She’s talking about that old Honda we got under the tarp.” Back to Olivia: “Lady, those glasses you’re wearing might not be thick enough.”

Suddenly, Olivia realized what should have been obvious all along. But she wasn’t going to leave without being certain. “Show me.”

“What?”

“You say that’s no Mustang. Let’s go have a look.”

Broderick shrugged.

Olivia and the uniformed officers made room for him to step outside. They followed him around to the driveway. He grabbed one corner of the tarp and pulled. It slid off the vehicle all at once, landing in a crumpled heap beside the front tire.

The Honda Civic that had been underneath was a good twenty years old, and looked every bit of it.

“See. Like I said. No Mustang. I’m not even sure this thing drives anymore.”

Olivia walked from the front of the vehicle to the back. No license plate on either end. Shit.

“Stay right here,” she said to both the officers and Broderick. Then she went up the street for some privacy. She called the DMV again, gave them the license plate again. This time, though, instead of asking who owned the vehicle, she asked for the make and model.

They told her exactly what she feared they might: The vehicle associated with that plate number was a 1984 Honda Civic.

The plates had been stolen. She wondered if the Mustang had been stolen, too.

CHAPTER 28

There was something in Olin’s voice that Connor didn’t like. He quickly made his way to the other end of the hall, trying not to think about all the horrible things he might find beyond that door. But his mind went there anyway. Decaying corpses. Maybe his parents. Maybe Olin’s. Maybe weapons or torture devices or cages—God, what if there were cages? Or—and this scared him even more—what if it was something worse? (Because even though Connor didn’t think it