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) 📗

lined the wall on each side of the fireplace. Some of those items, like an antique plate handed down from parent to child for God-knows-how-many generations, were broken. Others, like the angel made from Swarovski crystal, had shattered. The sofas were askew, the coffee table turned over.

The dining room and formal living room were almost as bad, but the kitchen had gotten the worst of it. No surprise, since Kim had used stacks of dishes to defend herself.

Each room connected to the next, and Connor was able to survey the entire floor without backtracking. When he was done, he dug the envelope of cash out of his waistband and sat down on the sofa to count it.

He made his way through the stack of hundreds. At nearly six thousand dollars, he lost interest. He felt numb and broken and scared, and at that moment the money just didn’t have any meaning to him. With just a glance at the stack of bills remaining to be counted, he estimated the total came in somewhere around twenty thousand.

He shoved the money back into the envelope and placed it on the mantel over the fireplace. It was the only flat surface that didn’t need to be cleaned. And he had to clean. As strange as it seemed, even to him, he had to bring order to this mess. It was almost as if by doing so, by returning the house to some semblance of normalcy, he might be able to bring his parents back.

Connor started with the big things, pushing the furniture into place and righting the chairs. Then he got the broom, swept up the broken dishes. Operating on a sort of autopilot, he carried one bag of trash after another to the bin outside. By the time he had filled his third bag, he had cleaned up most of the mess and, he realized, overfilled the bin as well.

He stood there in the dark looking at that last bag—half-in, half-out, the bin’s lid resting on top of it—and felt defeated. The zombie-like state that had carried him through the last several hours finally crumbled, and the torrent of emotions it had been keeping in check flooded out.

Connor screamed and slammed his fist on the bin’s lid. Over and over, he hit it. He used all of his weight to try to force it closed. When nothing worked, he pushed it over, let the damn bag of trash roll out, and stormed back inside.

THREE WEEKS LATER

CHAPTER 5

Mark Wilson didn’t care much for the city. He only came into town to catch a Broadway show with his wife once in a while. Tonight, they had come to see Wicked. His wife called it a “spectacle” on the way out. She meant it in a good way. He would have called it a spectacle, too, if she had asked. He wouldn’t have meant it in a good way. They didn’t agree on a lot. But that was what made their relationship work.

Hillary had gotten pregnant not long after they’d started dating, and originally they had stayed together for the child. Twenty years later, with their son at Princeton, they now stayed together because they loved each other. He couldn’t say for sure when their love had taken on the depth it had now, but he was sure those differences had been a part of making that happen.

On the way home, Hillary found a playlist of the musical’s songs on Spotify and put it on. By the time they reached their house in Westchester, they were both singing at the top of their lungs and laughing at how bad they were.

A rusty blue panel van was parked along the curb across the street. Mark looked at it and grunted. “Looks like the Sizemore kid got herself a new ride.”

“She should park that thing in the driveway,” Hillary said. “It’s such an eyesore.”

“Her parents probably don’t want to look at it any more than we do.”

“Yeah, well, she’s their kid.”

Mark pulled into his garage. “I’ll talk to them in the morning.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Luck?” he asked, then leaned in and put on an accent. “I don’t need no stinkin’ luck.”

Hillary laughed as he kissed her neck. She opened the car door. “Take that to the bedroom.”

They entered the house through an adjoining door. Mark turned off the alarm and Hillary headed straight for the stairs. She would expect him to follow, and he did.

Or he started to, anyway.

He was halfway up the stairs when a knock on the door caused him to stop. The small hairs on his arms jumped to attention. It was too late for visitors. He should probably just ignore it.

The visitor knocked again, louder this time, and rang the doorbell.

“What’s going on down there, honey?” Hillary shouted. “Who’s at the door?”

“I don’t know,” Mark called back. “Maybe the Sizemore kid heard us talking about her.”

“Well, it’s too late for visitors. Just ignore it. Whoever it is, they’ll go away.”

Exactly what I was thinking.

Mark started up the stairs again, this time reaching the bedroom. He came up behind Hillary, kissed her neck. She leaned into it.

Then that damn knocking was back. And the doorbell. Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Son of a . . . !” Mark charged down the stairs. His wife again encouraged him to ignore the visitor, but he couldn’t. This was going to stop now.

Mark turned the deadbolt, yanked open the door. “Listen. I don’t know who you think . . .” Although his words trailed off when he saw the man on the patio, the thought finished playing itself out in his head: . . . you are, banging on my door like that. What’s the matter with you?

It was as if his mind needed time to finish processing the reality before him. This man—this stranger—was dressed all in black. Scuffed black work boots, black jeans, black turtleneck (despite the fact that it was the kind of sticky hot tonight that made Mark want to strip naked and