A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trus by Reagan Keeter (best e book reader txt) 📕

The cavern looked almost identical to so many others they had traveled through that day, with arched rock walls that looked like they might collapse at any moment and a hard, uneven floor. No stalactites or stalagmites, though. The ceiling was the smoothest of any they had seen so far.

Good thing, too, Martin thought. After seeing Paul’s legs get crushed, he was pretty sure nobody would feel safe sleeping underneath a stalactite.

“No point in being optimistic,” Ethan said. “It is what it is.”

Martin’s stomach growled, and he asked if anyone else was hungry.

“Sure am,” Cynthia said. She sat down on the ground and unzipped the backpack. Then she passed around the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Martin watched Ethan devour his sandwich in under a minute. He, however, preferred to take his time. He chewed slowly, savoring every bite. This was the first time they had eaten since the earthquake, and it would be the last time they ate until they got out. No sense in rushing the meal.

“How do you think Paul’s doing?” Cynthia asked.

Martin shrugged and swallowed his food. How could he possibly have any idea?

“Probably dead,” Ethan said. That was Ethan’s attitude toward everything. If it wasn’t dead, it was going to die, or it should be dead.

“Because everything dies,” he had repeatedly told Martin. “Some things just die sooner than other things.”

“Don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

Cynthia shook her head. The scratches had stopped bleeding, but her face was matted with dried blood and dirt and looked ever more eerie with only her flashlight to light the room. She had placed it carefully on the ground so the light would shine up and out, illuminating the room like a dim fire. “No. I don’t believe you. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Paul wasn’t fine. He was sweating, drifting in and out of consciousness. There was nothing Gina could do about it except pray.

“It’s getting late,” she said. Paul had been unconscious for more than an hour, and she was talking just because there was no one else to talk. Hearing a voice, even her own, made her feel safer.

She looked at her watch for the third time in as many minutes. Eleven forty-seven p.m. They had been underground—in the muck and the blackness with God-knows-what watching from the shadows—for more than twelve hours.

Have they stopped to rest? she wondered. She hoped not. Her guess that Paul had forty-eight hours was now clearly unrealistic. Even more than she hoped that they hadn’t stopped to rest, she hoped that they had already found a way out. After all, it was possible, wasn’t it?

She leaned down to kiss Paul’s forehead and then, after settling his head back in her lap, she wrapped her arms over his chest. “I love you, and you love me, too. We’re going to be all right. I promise.”

“Don’t be such a dumbass,” Ethan said. “Paul’s buzzard food.”

Cynthia glared at him. With each passing moment, she had come to hate him a little more. “Listen, Gina said we had a couple of days. So just stop with your ‘all is lost’ attitude, okay? I don’t want to hear it. I don’t think Martin wants to hear it. Things are going to be hard enough without you constantly reminding us that we all have one foot in the grave.”

“Some more than others,” Ethan muttered.

Cynthia nearly screamed. Instead, she stood and walked to the other side of the cavern. There she took several deep breaths and drew her hands together in front of her chest, palm to palm.

She reminded Martin of a Japanese warrior, preparing to fight.

“What’d you have to do that for?” he said. “Look at her; she’s pissed.”

“What do you care?”

Martin knew what he meant. Ethan had made it clear. Cynthia didn’t love him. She had moved to L.A. to become a star. She was everything he wanted and wanted to be, as was she a reminder of his failures. Why should he care how she felt? But he did. Even though—

No. Don’t think about it right now.

Without a word, he walked over to Cynthia and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s a jerk sometimes.”

She dropped her hands to her sides and said, “Why is he like that?”

“I don’t know. Could be a lot of things.”

THEN

BYRON LANCASTER WAS Ethan’s father and one of the most respected men in Triton, Alabama. He owned a small bank that he had inherited from his father, and it was practically a town landmark. On more than one occasion, he had heard people reference the Lancaster Bank when giving out-of-towners directions.

Byron was an unusually skinny man, but not one who went to great lengths to maintain his weight. “It’s all in the genes,” he would joke when he was young. He also kept a carefully trimmed mustache that, like the rest of his hair, had prematurely grayed.

Every day, Monday through Friday, he wore a dark-blue suit and a black tie. It was the look of a professional, he thought. The look of a man you could trust with your money. When you were dealing with people’s money, trust was essential.

He also strived hard to be a perfect parent. He regularly checked Ethan’s homework and took him to the park to kick a soccer ball around. He kept baby photos on his desk and was frequently known to tell his staff stories that began with: “You’ll never believe what Ethan got into last night. . . .” Always with a smile.

Ethan’s mother, however, was not nearly as pleasant. When he was a baby, she would shout at him until he cried himself out and nurse him only when it was convenient for her. Whenever he awoke screaming in the middle of the night, she would put a pillow over her head and tell Byron to deal with it. Norma Lancaster was no one to be trifled with—it was best Ethan learn that