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) 📗

Olivia checked in a couple of times. When Connor asked if she had any leads, she said they had one, but not to get his hopes up. A patient had recently died on Kim’s table, the hospital staff had told her. Olivia hadn’t been able to reach the family yet. According to the neighbors, they were out of town. Once she could, she was going to talk to them to rule it out. That sort of thing happened from time to time, she explained, and as far as motives went, it was weak.

Three weeks after the abduction, Henry told Connor he had to go home. “You should come with me,” he said. “I hate the thought of you being here by yourself.” He was, by chance, wearing the same gray shirt and black slacks he had arrived in, although they did not look as fresh as they had.

Henry delivered the news over breakfast. Bacon and eggs. It was the only time their morning meal had consisted of anything more than black coffee and Wheaties. Often it hadn’t even been that much.

Connor shook his head. “I can’t do that. I need to be here. Just in case.”

“Just in case what? I’m as worried about them as you are. But it’s been three weeks. If anyone was going to call, we would have heard something by now. I hate to say it . . .” Henry’s gaze fell from Connor to his coffee cup. “We need to start thinking about what you’re going to do . . . next.”

“Next?”

“Jesus, Connor, don’t make me say it.”

Connor slid the plate of food away. He had appreciated the hot meal when he had come downstairs. Now he saw it for what it was. A way to soften the one-two punch. Henry was leaving. His parents were dead. Enjoy your eggs.

“Kim made Sarah and me your godparents.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like there was anyone else.”

“I just want what’s best for you.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Henry dropped his head, sighed, pushed his chair away from the table. “Are you done with this?” he said, pointing at Connor’s plate as he got up.

Connor didn’t respond.

Henry must have taken that as a “yes” because he picked up both plates and carried them to the sink, which was already full with an assortment of cookware. “I’ll clean it up before I go.” Then, lumbering like he always did, he made his way from the kitchen to the dining room. Before he was out of sight, he turned around. “You’re an adult. I can’t make you come with me if you don’t want to.” He waited for Connor to say something, but Connor wasn’t sure what he should say. “Sooner or later, we’re going to have to deal with all of this.” He pointed a finger and waved it around as if to indicate not just the house but Connor’s entire life. “You can’t afford this place on your own, and it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to stay, even if you could.”

I can afford it for now, Connor thought.

Connor knew the statistics as well as anyone. It seemed like every talking head would repeat them anytime the news covered an abduction. The most important of those statistics, and the one Henry had been driving at, was this: If a victim wasn’t found within the first day or two, he was probably dead.

Connor wasn’t ready to accept that possibility when it came to his own family, and going with Henry to Florida would be tantamount to not only accepting the possibility, but accepting it as fact.

Still, he shouldn’t have acted like a jerk. Henry was only trying to help.

Henry huffed and puffed his way down the hall, his suitcase held out in front of him. Connor met him in the foyer.

“I’m sorry,” Connor said.

Henry let his suitcase fall by his side. “It’s all right. I wish I could stay longer.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Henry’s phone chirped. He fished it out of his pocket, looked at the screen, then at the door. “My Uber’s here. Call me, all right?”

Connor nodded. He wanted to give Henry a hug. He thought Henry might want one, too. But they had never had that kind of relationship, so with a handshake and an awkward pat on the back, Henry was out the door.

Connor locked the deadbolt behind him, slid the chain into place. Then he made sure the garage and rear doors were also locked. He checked the windows, set the alarm.

This is my life now, isn’t it?

Always wondering, always worrying.

Connor called Austin to say he was ready to come back to work. Hanging around the house with Henry had been bad enough. Now there wasn’t even the minimal conversation Henry had provided to comfort or distract him.

He pulled the envelope of cash out from the back of his sock drawer, counted it again. It was all still there. Twenty thousand dollars to the penny. He hadn’t spent any of it and wasn’t sure he would. He counted it not because he thought Henry had found it and secretly pocketed a couple of hundred dollars for himself—Henry would have come right out and asked him about the money—but more as a form of meditation. Slowly going through those bills, one by one, he let his mind drift. Wondered again what the money meant. Hoped that an answer, anything that made sense, would occur to him.

Once again, though, he came up empty.

Connor returned the money to its hiding place. He went into his parents’ bathroom, opened his mom’s medicine cabinet, and took an Ambien from a bottle of pills. She had trouble sleeping and had been taking the drug for as long as he could remember.

Connor stretched out on his bed. He looked over at his computer. He could find out more about the man who had died on his mom’s table if he wanted to. It wouldn’t be hard to hack into the hospital’s system, find the man’s records. But he decided against it. He hadn’t tried to hack his way into