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) 📗

anything since the night his parents had been abducted. Part of that was because he had been too wrapped up with worry and heartache to think about it. The other part was that message he had gotten from Ion: Stay out of my system or I’ll make sure Matt finds out what you’ve been up to.

It still creeped him out.

Besides, the Ambien was already starting to take hold.

But there was one thing he did want to do before he passed out. He forced himself to sit up, then stand, then cross the room to the only window. It was here that he had stood when he saw the panel van parked on the front yard. It was also here that he had stood for several minutes every night since, looking for . . . well, he wasn’t sure what. It was a little like pulling back the shower curtain just to make sure there wasn’t a killer on the other side.

He was certain by now that if the intruder was going to come back for him, he would have done so already. He also knew it was unlikely, if the killer did come, that he would be looking out the window at the exact right time to see him before he entered the house.

Still, it made Connor feel better, so he looked.

He could still make out the tire marks on the grass. But there was something else out there this time, too, that didn’t belong. A man.

CHAPTER 7

The man was standing at the end of the driveway, facing the house. He was little more than a shadow in the darkness.

Connor began to panic, his terror overpowering the Ambien. It was the killer. (Your parents aren’t dead. Don’t think that way.) He had come back, after all. Maybe he had been watching the whole time, waiting for Connor to be alone.

Connor ran to the stairs before he knew what he was doing. But he did know this much: If the intruder thought he was going to take Connor by surprise like he had his parents, he had better think again. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he thought about the sound of his mom tossing dishes at the intruder. He remembered thinking she should grab a knife from the block on the counter.

He detoured to the kitchen—the fireplace poker was a fine weapon, but a knife would be better. Especially that large carving knife they used only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. He circled right around to the foyer, barely stopping long enough to pull the carving knife out of the wooden block.

He charged out the front door. “Who are you?” he shouted. “Tell me where my parents are or I swear—”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” The man’s hands were out in front of him. Connor could see him better now. He was in his early thirties, Connor suspected, and wearing pleated tan slacks, loafers, and a striped dress shirt. His hair was carefully styled into that “I pretend I don’t care but I do” look Connor hated. “Put that thing down, would you?”

Connor slowed to a stop as he realized this man wasn’t the intruder. But still he demanded to know, “Who the hell are you?”

The man pulled a business card out of his pocket with an efficiency that suggested he was prepared for a confrontation like this. Then he rambled off his name so fast Connor couldn’t understand it.

Connor sized him up. He let the knife fall to his side, but still watched the man warily. He crept forward, snatched the business card out of the stranger’s hand. The name on it was Isaiah Cook. His title: Producer. And the show he produced? That was on there, too. Uncovered.

Connor knew it well. It was among his favorites. Or it had been, until his parents were abducted. Since then, he’d had trouble concentrating on any TV shows long enough to follow a plot, and the last thing he wanted to watch was true crime.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“I wanted to talk to you—”

“Why were you just standing there like that, looking at the house?”

“Oh, that.” He smiled. It seemed a little forced, like he was trying to put Connor at ease. “I just wanted to get a feel for the place. Trying to picture how it might look on camera, you know? Good, I think. These traditionals almost always play well. They’re the kind of home just about anyone can imagine themselves living in. Makes the whole story more relatable.”

“What are you talking about?” Connor suspected he knew where this was going, but he still wanted to hear Isaiah say it, just to be sure.

“We heard about what happened to your parents. That’s a strange thing. You don’t have a lot of cases like that—someone just coming in and snatching two adults out of their home. And you saw him, right? The guy who took your parents? And he saw you. But he just let you go. That’s strange, don’t you think?”

The question sounded rhetorical. But since it seemed like Isaiah was looking for a response, Connor nodded. “Yeah. I mean—yeah, I thought so.”

Isaiah glanced over each shoulder. “Do you mind if we go inside?”

Looking for his competition, Connor thought. A series of reporters had made their way up to the house over the two weeks that had followed the abduction. First in a big wave the day after it happened, then in ever-dwindling numbers until they had stopped coming altogether. Connor hadn’t spoken to any of them, and Henry had been good about shooing them away. Some had baited him into answering a few basic questions, like how long Kim and Frank had been married and if he knew why they had been targeted. Since Henry hadn’t been present during the abduction (and since he had no idea why his sister and her husband had been targeted), they never got much out of him. Certainly not enough to make it worth a return trip.

Connor thought it over. “Sure.” Then