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) 📕

Maybe. He’d have to think that over later when he had time. Either way, it did nothing for answering the other question Bash had raised. “Why do you think my text messages were deleted?”

“Well, that is strange. I’ll tell you what, when we’re done here, I’ll make a call. We’ve got a PI we use sometimes. Ryan Reyes. I’ll ask him to shine a little light on Elise’s past for us. I doubt he’ll be able to tell us why your text messages were deleted, but he might be able to figure out why she was using a different last name.”

It wasn’t the answer he was hoping for, but what else could he expect her to say? There was no explaining what had happened to those text messages. Liam would have to take the wins where he could get them. If Ryan could uncover the reason Elise had changed her name, that would be something, at least. Then an idea occurred to him—while the PI was doing his thing, Liam would see what he could find out about Elise Watson online. It probably wouldn’t lead anywhere, but it couldn’t hurt to look.

Jacob Reed

Jacob hacked his way into Christopher Bell’s life only as far as he needed to find out where the man banked. Fingering the safety deposit box key in his pocket, he showed up at the First National on State Street wearing a suit, a wig, a Cubs baseball cap, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that didn’t actually do anything for his vision.

First National was a massive building with polished floors and tall ceilings. Jacob’s footsteps echoed through the cavernous lobby. A bank representative greeted him, asked why he was there, and directed him to a group of leather chairs situated near a series of offices, doors closed.

Jacob waited patiently to be seen. He watched the line for the tellers shrink and then grow again. He listened to their conversations. One customer was there to deposit her paycheck, another needed a cashier’s check, a third had come to make a withdraw. The conversations were dull, and Jacob quickly lost interest. He tapped his fingers together as he sang the chorus to a pop song in his head. When he realized with disgust it was the newest hit by boy band Fresh Sync, he pushed it away and read the covers of the magazines spread out on the coffee table in front of him instead.

The one on top was a Better Homes & Gardens. It featured a smiling woman with two small kids beside her, sitting in a posh living room. Like so many photos, it made him think about the life that someday might be his.

A personal banker opened one of the office doors and invited him in. She was an attractive woman in her late twenties. She smiled at him and he smiled back. He crossed the lobby, keeping his head down, using the cap’s bill to mitigate the risk that one security camera or another would catch a clear shot of his face. He told her he was there to get into his safety deposit box. She asked for his account information which, of course, he, Chris Bell, could provide. She checked his ID (a fake, with his picture and Chris’s name). She had him sign a form. Boilerplate stuff.

Jacob made sure the only thing he touched other than his ID was the pen, which he slid through his fingers to smear any prints before returning.

Satisfied she had fulfilled her obligation to protect her customer’s property, the banker accompanied Jacob to Chris’s safety deposit box and together they unlocked it. “I’ll be right outside if you need me,” she told him, as she left him alone to peruse the contents.

Jacob flipped open the box’s lid and found none of the items he’d expected to find: deeds, titles, birth certificates, a will. What he found was a ring. He didn’t know much about jewelry, so he couldn’t estimate the ring’s value by looking at it. But since Chris Bell had gone to the trouble of putting it in a safety deposit box, he figured it had to be worth a lot.

Karma’s a bitch, he thought, amused, and pocketed the ring. Then he wiped the box down with a handkerchief and slid it back into place.

“Thank you,” he said to the personal banker on his way out. “I’m done here.”

Liam Parker

Liam arrived at the Oakbrooke Cemetery at 3:15 on Tuesday for Elise’s funeral. He went with the hope of learning more about the woman he’d fallen in love with and, if Elise had indeed been after a fresh start, the past she’d run away from. Maybe he would even stumble upon a clue that would point Bash in the right direction.

The service had been announced in the Chicago Tribune’s obituaries. It was the only thing Liam had found online about Elise under the name Watson other than a dormant Facebook account.

The cemetery was an expansive green landscape, anchored by groves of oak trees along its southern and western borders, the tombstones neatly organized in rows. A narrow road meandered in from the east through an arched wrought-iron gate and then forked to the north and southwest, extending across the grounds in a misshapen Y.

As Liam marched through the headstones, he counted just under half-a-dozen mourners gathered near the burial site. Three men, two women. They stood in front of four rows of foldout metal chairs with programs on them. The men wore suits, the women black dresses. The casket was closed and suspended above the grave. A priest, dressed in white and holding a Bible, was standing at its head. He looked in Liam’s direction, nodded, and waited for Liam to arrive before he began.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

Some of the mourners glanced curiously at Liam. He pretended