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) 📕

Jacob turned onto Belmont. There was less foot traffic here. He could go faster. He passed a church and thought about trying the doors, but if they were locked, the narrow lead he had would be lost. He passed an alley and thought about running down that too, but what if it led to a dead end?

Beyond the Lincoln Belmont library, the street became residential, with old brick houses and small fenced yards. There was no one in front of him now but a homeless man pushing a shopping cart.

Jacob was getting tired. He could feel the mark gaining on him. Eventually he crossed underneath the Belmont station. Not sure where to go but unable to run much farther, he heard a train rattling to a stop on the tracks overhead.

That was his ticket out of this mess. His only chance. He broke to his left and ran across the street. A series of faces, cartoonish in proportion and color, had been painted onto the cement pillars supporting the tracks. He fished his metro card out of his pocket and fed it into the turnstile’s reader.

If Jacob could have jumped over the turnstile, he would have. But Chicago turnstiles worked like revolving doors, with over eight vertical feet of rotating bars. The city had made sure that if you wanted to get through, you were going to pay.

The reader rejected his card. He could feel the painted faces staring down at him, telling him he wouldn’t escape, not this time. He shook away the doubt and inserted the card again.

His pursuer’s footsteps were getting louder, his winded voice shouting obscenities, telling Jacob to stay where he was, threating to kill him.

As tempting as it was to look back, Jacob kept his eyes on the reader. A wasted second might be all it would take to lose his lead.

This time the reader processed the metro card without issue. Jacob snatched it up and pushed into the turnstile. A hand grabbed his jacket and tugged, but his momentum kept him moving forward. As the turnstile rotated and the metal bars closed in behind him, the hand released.

“You son of a bitch!” the man shouted.

Jacob bolted up the stairs to the platform, taking them two at a time. The red, purple, and brown lines all came through this stop. He didn’t care which train was up there. He just wanted to make sure he was on it when it pulled away.

The train’s doors were still open when he reached the top of the stairs. Jacob slipped through them right before they closed. The car wasn’t crowded—no surprise, considering the hour—and he took a seat by the window.

He watched the stairs until they were out of sight. That was close. Was he getting sloppy? He replayed the theft in his mind. Hand to the chest, hand to the back pocket. An apology. No, he wasn’t. That was as good a lift as he had ever done. But this man had figured it out.

He pulled the mark’s wallet out of his jacket. Inside, he found a stack of cash and counted it. Two hundred and thirty-two dollars. He slipped the money into his coat. Then he pulled out the only photo and pocketed it too. It was of the man and a much younger woman. She was draped over him in a loving way that, like so many wallet photos, reminded him of the relationship he wished to have.

Jacob was about to close the wallet, ready to dump it in the trashcan at the next station, when he felt something on an inside pocket that caught his attention. He looked, slid out a key. It was for a safety deposit box, that much he could say for sure. His curiosity was piqued. People kept valuable things in safety deposit boxes. What bank did this key go to? Jacob could find that out as long as he had a name. He checked the man’s license. Christopher Bell. It sounded vaguely familiar. Perhaps it was just that the name was so ordinary.

Well, he decided, even if he was going to forgo further pickpocketing for a while (and, after what had happened tonight, he meant it), there was no reason not to see what was in this man’s safety deposit box. Wouldn’t that, too, be justice?

Liam Parker

The next couple of days were a blur of comfort food and crap TV. Liam slept when he could, which wasn’t much, and cried when he needed to, which was often. He only left the condo for brief trips outside to walk Chloe and a stop at Petco for dog food. On the first of those walks, the concierge told Liam she was a nice-looking dog on the way out and said the kids are going to like her on the way back in.

Liam figured the concierge was probably right and, with a weak smile, managed to say, “Thanks.”

By Sunday morning, he was starting to feel a little better. He was still a long way from being okay, but he was finally ready for some company. He called David Hayes to see if they could meet for lunch.

David said he could and suggested a restaurant called The Crown.

Liam wasn’t surprised. It was David’s favorite place for a burger and a beer.

Liam had met his business partner through his ex, and she had met David through his girlfriend, Alicia. The two women were regular volunteers at St. Ann’s Church on Tuesday nights. They’d bring in snacks, set up chairs, and help direct visitors to the various addiction meetings—AA, ACA, Al-Anon, and so on. They were a comforting presence to new and returning attendees, alike.

Since their divorce, Catherine rarely showed Liam her good side. But he knew she still had one because she still volunteered.

The Crown’s floor was covered in long sheets of gray porcelain tile. The tables were made of cherrywood and polished to a shine. Exposed filament lightbulbs hung from the ceiling at uneven heights.

David was sitting near a