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) 📕

a lot like the American prisons Oldrich had seen on TV. He parked in the lot along the north wall and flashed his badge at a guard on his way in. The guard hardly even looked at it before waving him through.

The process of gaining access to a prisoner was pretty boilerplate. Oldrich filled out a short form at the front desk and then was taken to an interrogation room, where he would wait for Matthew to arrive.

The room was a perfect square. Eight by eight. Cinderblocks walls, peeling linoleum on the floor. A small foldout table and two foldout chairs. No windows.

Oldrich took a seat in the chair that faced the door and occupied himself with his phone while he waited. The news about the blackout in New York was just starting to hit his feed. There wasn’t much information yet. Likely a problem with a transformer, one article speculated.

But the door opened before he could finish reading it. A guard stepped in. “Detective, we have a problem.”

CHAPTER 48

It seemed like a strange thing to play cards in the middle of a blackout, with Connor’s parents missing, Olin’s parents missing, and Dylan’s friend dead, but that was what they did. None of them could sleep, and it was better than staring at each other in the dark, waiting for the power to come back.

When it did return a couple of hours later, the whole apartment lit up at once. Austin placed his cards face down on the coffee table, then got up and went to the window. He peeked through the blinds. “It’s not just us. Far as I can see, everything’s back.”

Connor didn’t realize how stressed the blackout had been making him until it had passed. It was as if they had made it through the worst—the literal darkness before the dawn—and maybe this was a sign that everything would be okay. It was crazy thinking, he knew. As if somehow the restoration of power had anything to do with the return of his parents. But he didn’t think too hard about it. He needed to take comfort where he could. And if he found that comfort in a sort of disjointed logic that bordered on being a wish, so be it.

He picked up the remote, turned on the TV, and was greeted by a commercial for Pillsbury biscuits. As if nothing at all had happened.

Without saying a word, everyone turned their attention to the screen. They all wanted answers, and they all seemed to know that was exactly what Connor was trying to get them.

He pressed the up button, browsing from one channel to the next.

“Forty-seven,” Austin said.

Connor moved his thumb from the arrow to the digits. When the channel changed, they saw a news anchor sitting behind a desk and the CNN logo in the corner of the screen. “. . . reports are still coming in. So far, we are aware of five explosions at malls across New York City. The bombs were detonated within minutes of each other. Deaths and casualties combined are expected to be in the thousands. New York City Health & Hospital has already reached capacity and is routing ambulances to other locations . . .”

All four stared in silence, watching the broadcast. The news anchor cut over to experts who speculated on the reasons behind the bombings and how they would change the country and shopping malls, in particular. Governor Flores would be addressing the nation soon. So would the president.

Connor didn’t have to say this was bad, but he did anyway, and Olin agreed. Austin put a finger to his lips and shushed them. Even though the gesture was common enough to be meaningless, it still reminded Connor of the night his parents were taken and gave him a chill.

After an hour or so, Austin muted the screen. Governor Flores had just finished speaking. He had assured the public they would find out who had done this. He had urged everyone to stay calm. And, of course, thoughts and prayers for the victims and their families.

There was nothing else new. The information cycle was running on repeat.

They talked for a while. It was no doubt the same sort of conversation people all across the country were having at that moment. They tried to assure each other that Flores was right, that those responsible for the bombings would be found. They told themselves they were lucky to still be alive.

At some point, Austin’s cat jumped on the sofa and curled up beside Dylan, which surprised Connor.

“Huh. That bastard never takes to anyone,” Austin said.

Dylan smiled down at the cat, began stroking his back. She turned to Connor. “Can I . . .” She hesitated, like she was embarrassed, then blurted out, “Can I use your phone?”

“Yeah, sure,” Connor said, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Give it a shot. Why?”

“I . . .” Now she looked away. “I need to call my parents and let them know I’m all right.”

Connor nodded and handed it to her. If he was in her position, he would want to call his parents, too.

The conversation was short. She told them she was safe and that, yes, she could stay where she was until everything calmed down.

When she passed the phone back, Connor saw he had a voicemail from a California number. It wasn’t any of his friends, and he doubted it was anything important—probably a telemarketer—but he checked it anyway, just in case.

“Connor, hi. It’s Isaiah. From Uncovered. I’m back in California. I saw what happened on the news. Shit, I hope you’re all right. If you get this, there’s something you should know. The show aired tonight, and we got a call. Got a lot of them, actually. Mostly a bunch of crackpots. You know, the kind that call in Elvis sightings and crap like that. There was one, though, that I think might be something. Seems there was a man in New York on business. He drove in from Boston, if I remember right. Anyway, he says he saw the same