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) 📕

Liam doubled down on his bet.

The Grunter rolled his shoulders around in his tailored sports coat. He looked from his cards to those on the table and back. He shifted a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Then, as Liam had come to expect, he grunted.

“All right,” Jacob said, “play it or fold it. Make a move.” Jacob was smiling and Liam could hear it in his voice. He didn’t intend to aggravate the Grunter, he was just gregarious. He’d introduce himself to every new player, welcome back every old one, ask about their work, their family, and their pets.

Still, aggravate the Grunter he did.

“Shut up.” The Grunter looked at Liam and Liam winked, trying to unnerve him. It almost worked too. The Grunter closed his cards into one hand, tapped them on the table like he did when he was about to fold, and hesitated. The corners of his lips curled down and his nose wrinkled up as if he smelled something rotten. “No,” the Grunter mumbled. He scooped up a stack of chips and threw them into the pile. “You got shit.”

Liam didn’t know what to say. The Grunter was right. Still, he felt like he needed to say something. But his phone vibrated in his pocket, distracting him. He pulled it out, saw a text from Elise: I need to see you.

Before he could settle on his next move, two more texts came in rapid succession.

I’m serious.

I need you to come over right now.

He ground his teeth together. Fine. Elise wasn’t going to give up until she got what she wanted, and the Grunter wasn’t going to fold. Sometimes the closest you can get to a win is to quit. He placed his cards face down on the table and got to his feet.

“You’re out?” the Grunter asked.

“I am.”

The Grunter threw one fist into the air and laughing with a sort of hee-haw chuckle. “Boom!” He tossed his cards onto the pile of chips—a four of hearts and an eight of spades. “I don’t know what you had, but it couldn’t have been worse than that.”

He was right. It wasn’t. A pair of twos would’ve beaten him. But, Liam thought again, once you’re out, you’re out. So, as Emily groaned and the Grunter gleefully stacked up his chips, he did his best to smile and walked away from the table.

He cashed out and said goodbye to Ava Perez, the owner of Midwest Design. She nodded to one of the two men standing guard by the door and the man opened it. Liam navigated his way around the tables where designers and clients would huddle during the day, looking at photos, fabrics swatches, and sketches, and took the elevator to the underground garage.

He trekked the thirty feet through the cold to his Tesla, got in, and started the engine. Before he could put the car into drive, his phone vibrated again. Elise, no doubt. He took the phone out of his pocket and read the message.

Why don’t you answer me?

He typed: I’m on my way. This isn’t working. We need to talk.

Before hitting SEND, though, he thought about the morning they’d spent down at the lake, sitting on the beach and watching a sailboat ease its way across the dark horizon. They were on the tail end of their first date. Dinner at Alinea had turned into drinks at Eno, which had, through a series of events long since lost to the bottle, turned into quiet conversation near the water.

They’d learned a lot about each other that night; they’d both grown up in Oak Park and in households they would be hard-pressed to call middle class, their moms went to church and their dads liked fishing, they both worked in advertising, both liked ’70s rock, and neither one of them cared that discussing politics was taboo.

He deleted the line “This isn’t working.” Elise might interpret that to mean he planned on breaking up with her, which wasn’t the case. Elise was something special. But they did need to talk. She had to start giving him some space.

Liam traded his parking spot in the garage for one on the street near Elise’s building. The midrise had a fob-activated security door but, unlike his building, no concierge, and most people paid the security protocol little mind. So it was no surprise when a young woman on her way out held the door for him.

The elevator rose to the fourth floor in fits and starts, then opened onto a long, narrow hallway that forked at each end. The paint was fresh, but the lights along the ceiling bathed the walls in a grayish-yellow that could make you think otherwise. From the look of it, the carpet hadn’t received the same care. Worn thin, Liam suspected it had seen a decade’s worth of traffic since it had last been replaced.

He headed down the hall to Elise’s apartment, Unit 423, and knocked. Per usual, Chloe started to bark. The Pomeranian wouldn’t quiet down until Elise opened the door and the dog got to sniff his shoes. Only thing was, she didn’t open the door.

After thirty seconds or so, Liam knocked again. “Elise! Open up. It’s Liam.”

When that didn’t work, he tried to call, waited an impossibly long time for her voicemail to answer, and didn’t bother to leave a message. Something was wrong. Even if Elise was mad, she’d at least open the door to tell him.

He turned the doorknob, not expecting much, and the door glided away from the frame. Chloe trotted into the hall, gave his loafers a sniff, then started panting.

Stepping deeper into the apartment, the Pomeranian at his side, Liam grew increasingly uneasy. “Elise?”

The apartment wasn’t much bigger than the one he’d been in when he’d married his ex-wife. Liam could see most of it by merely rotating his head ninety degrees. The floors were an oak-strip laminate and the walls were the same color as those