A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trust

by Reagan Keeter

  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 in the hall.

  Elise was good about keeping things where they belonged and refrained from cluttering the space with things she didn’t need. Liam would have been able to tell right away if anything were amiss.

  The bathroom door was closed and, less than a minute later, it was the last room to check. Liam knocked, listened, heard only the sound of running water. As he stood there, he remembered Elise telling him once she didn’t leave her front door unlocked. There were bad people out there, she’d said. “You never know what could happen.”

  Screw this. Liam flung the bathroom door open. He thought he was ready for whatever he might find on the other side.

  He wasn’t.

  Liam Parker

  Elise was lying in the bathtub. Her thin face was slack, eyes closed, mouth open. Her head hung to one side, resting against the tiles running from tub to ceiling. The mascara around her left eye was smeared down to her cheek. The faucets were on, the water spilling onto the floor and red from her blood.

  It took only two steps for Liam to cross from the door to the tub. He was muttering, asking for help, from God, from anyone. He reached into the water, scooping his hands under her armpits so he could drag her out. Liam didn’t care that her blood was soaking into his clothes. He didn’t even notice. He shouted her name, hoping she’d react, maybe say something or open her eyes or give him some sign she was still alive. Because she could be. The water was warm. She was warm. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  He lifted, twisted, fought against her weight and the water. Her clothes, black slacks and blouse, clung to her body. She slipped out of his grip and back into the tub with a splash.

  That was when he saw the cuts to her wrists. Telltale signs of a suicide.

  It didn’t make sense. Elise wasn’t suicidal. But there was no time to think about that now. He needed to call 911. He should have called them as soon as he’d found the body, but he wasn’t thinking clearly.

  Liam went for the cell in his pocket, only to realize he’d left it in the car. He looked around, trying to figure out what to do. He remembered seeing Elise’s iPhone sitting on the coffee table. He grabbed it, pressed the home button. It asked for a passcode.

  Liam didn’t have time to start guessing combinations. He dropped the phone and ran back into the hall, pounded on the nearest door. No one answered. He tried another. When no one answered that one either, he ran for the stairs. They were cement and narrower than they should be. Keeping one hand above the chipped rail so he could grab it if he fell, Liam took them fast. Starting at the top of each flight, he went two or three steps and jumped to the next landing.

  He bolted out of the door leading into to the lobby and nearly ran into an old woman. She was hunched over and wearing something blue with white flowers on it. Her eyes popped open and she screamed. Liam suspected it was the sight of all the blood. As he’d hauled Elise out of the water, it had gotten onto everything, but was most visible across the front of his chest where it had stained his white dress shirt.

  He didn’t stop to explain or ask for help. He simply weaved around the stranger and kept going. He could hear her screaming until he exited the building and he wasn’t even sure she’d stopped then.

  His car was close. As he ran toward it, he fished the keys out of his pocket, pressed the unlock button. The lights flashed. His breath swirled in front of him. The cold seeped through his wet clothes and into his skin.

  Liam reached in through the passenger door and grabbed his cell from the center console. Standing in the road, hands shaking, he unlocked the device and saw a small red dot on the corner of the phone icon with the number twelve in it. When he’d pulled it out of his pocket to read the first text from Elise, he’d seen a notification announcing he’d missed a call from her, but hadn’t given it any thought. Ava had a strict “no calls” policy. His ringer had been on silent, and one missed call was no more significant than the message that had followed it. He cursed himself for not noticing the actual number of calls at the time, wondered if it would have made any difference, and dialed 911.

  “Nine-one-one. How can I help?” the operator asked.

  “My girlfriend needs assistance.” Liam gave her the address, and told her about the blood.

  He was barely off the phone when a police car, lights flashing, rounded the corner at the end of the block.

  Thank God.

  He flagged down the black-and-white and the cop rolled down his window. The driver had a meaty face that crowded in on his small eyes. His partner was lean and cloaked in shadow. Before either of them could speak, Liam said, “You’re here for Elise, right? Elise Whitman? Where’s the ambulance? She needs an ambulance right away.”

  “Relax. It’s coming.”

  The paramedics did what they could, but Elise was gone, and the apartment immediately transformed into a crime scene. Liam hadn’t been allowed back into the unit since the first officers arrived. With the apartment’s new status, he wasn’t even allowed to wait outside her door.

  “We need to make some room,” the meaty officer said, ushering Liam down the hall, past those ugly yellow walls that now looked even uglier.

  Liam didn’t respond. He felt numb. He couldn’t understand why Elise would kill herself. Maybe they’d find a note.

  On the elevator, the officer added, “I’m sorry for your loss” and, once they reached the lobby, “Have a seat on the bench over there. A detective will be along soon. They’ll want to talk to you.”

  “Sure.” Liam didn’t see the point; the cops already knew everything he did. But he didn’t see much reason to do anything else either.

  He sat down on a metal bench that had been designed more for form than function. Directly in front of him, a flat screen TV mounted to the wall flipped between an ad for rooftop yoga and the status of the morning trains. Right now, all the lines had green dots beside them to indicate the trains would be running on time. Liam doubted that would last much past eight.

  He called his receptionist’s office line. Even if he didn’t end up staying here all night, he’d be in no shape to go to work tomorrow. Her voicemail answered on the third ring and the message he left was brief. “Hey. I’m not feeling great. I’m going to be out Friday. Please reschedule any meetings.” (While she would get the time with the message and might think he’d been out late drinking, the nice thing about being the boss was it didn’t matter.) Then he called his business partner, David Hayes, and left a similar message.

  After he watched the screen rotate a dozen or so times, Liam turned his attention to the bank of mailboxes beside the TV. 101. 102. 103. He read every apartment number up through the third floor and started again. Anything to keep from thinking about Elise’s body.

  The few tenants who came in or out were rerouted through the garage, so at least Liam didn’t have to deal with them glancing suspiciously in his direction.

  When the detective finally arrived, he stopped outside the building and spoke briefly with the cop by the door. He was wearing a charcoal suit and had a thick mane of gray hair brushed away from his face. The cop pointed to Liam. The detective entered the lobby and said on his way to the elevator, “I’ll be right back. Stay put, okay?”

  Liam nodded and started reading the mailboxes again.

  The detective sat down next to Liam. For several seconds, he said nothing. Then he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and sighed. “That’s a real shame.” The detective waited another beat, perhaps giving Liam a chance to respond, b
efore adding, “One of the officers upstairs tells me her name was Elise Whitman.”

  It wasn’t a question, but since Liam could tell the detective was trying to engage with him, he said, “Yeah. It is,” then silently corrected himself. Was. It was Elise Whitman. Because that was what happened when you died. You were no longer anything. And you certainly never would be anything. Like Elise Parker.

  Liam had never thought seriously about them getting married. They had only been dating for two months; it was too soon for those kinds of thoughts. But the fact that the possibility had been ripped away seemed unfair.

  The detective nodded thoughtfully, perhaps even sympathetically, and tilted his head toward Liam. “Sebastian Wyatt,” he said. “Call me Bash.”

  “Liam Parker.”

  “How did you two meet?” the detective asked.

  They had met at Ava’s. In fact, Elise had even been one of tonight’s six players, but had bowed out early, claiming a headache. Liam, of course, couldn’t tell Bash any of that. The games were illegal. Still, he had to say something. “A bar,” he replied. “Downtown.”

  “Which one?”

  More specificity. Think. “The Tap.”

  “Nice place. A little out of my budget, but . . .” Bash shrugged. “So, tell me what happened.”

  “Well, I knocked on her door and when she didn’t answer, I tried the handle to see if it was unlocked.” Liam shifted in his seat a little in an attempt to make the metal bench more comfortable.

  “Was it?”

  “Yes, it was, which surprised me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Elise kept her door locked all the time.”

  The detective looked past Liam at the computerized directory on the wall. “How did you get into the building?”

  “There was a girl going out. She held the door for me.”

  “Do you know who she was?”

  “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “After you got inside the apartment, what happened next?”

  “I found Elise in the tub,” Liam said, uselessly trying to recount the actions without visualizing them. “I tried to pull her out. When I couldn’t, I called 911.”

  “That’s how you got the blood on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Liam remembered Chloe greeting him when he opened the door to the apartment. Where was she? He thought he’d seen one of the paramedics lock her in the bedroom, but he couldn’t be certain. He wondered what would happen to her. With no owner to take care of her, Chloe would probably get put in a shelter. If she didn’t get adopted, the shelter would most likely put her to sleep. Liam couldn’t let that happen. Elise wouldn’t like it.

  “The dog,” he said, shifting his gaze away from the mailboxes to meet Bash’s, “can I take her with me?”

  The detective frowned. “I guess so.” Then he asked Liam more questions. No, Liam didn’t know of anybody who was angry with Elise. He didn’t know if she kept a spare key with the neighbors. He was at home before he came here.

  Bash ended the conversation by asking Liam if he knew how to get in touch with Elise’s family.

  “I’m sorry,” Liam said, “I don’t.”

  “That’s fine. I’m sure we can figure out how to reach them.” The detective gave Liam his card. “Call me if you remember anything important.”

  Liam slid the card into his jacket pocket. “Detective Wyatt, you don’t think somebody . . . ?” He could barely get the words out. When the apartment had been designated a crime scene, he had figured it was standard operating procedure, even for suicides. Now he wasn’t so sure, and he didn’t want to leave wondering if his imagination was running away with him. “You don’t think somebody killed her, do you?”

  “We don’t know,” the officer replied, which Liam figured was cop-speak for yes.

  Fuck, Liam thought while he waited for Bash to return with Chloe. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Suicide was bad, but murder would be so much worse.

  Jacob Reed

  Jacob was, in all manner of ways, forgettable. Some of that was by birth. (He was five-ten and of average weight. His oval face was neither particularly handsome nor ugly. His nose was straight and without defect. His eyes were a murky blue bordering on brown.)

  But most of it was by design. He kept his blond hair short, had no piercings or tattoos, even though he wanted them, and shopped at stores like The Gap, buying their most nondescript items.

  Jacob liked being forgettable.

  People who were forgettable were hard to find. Even if anybody did remember what he looked like, a description to the police would be so generic as to be useless.

  The tuxedo vest and bowtie he wore when dealing cards at Ava’s were too distinct to meet his standards. Before heading home, he changed into an olive sweater, a wool coat with no distinguishing characteristics, and a pair of blue jeans. He packed his work clothes into a backpack, then took a bus north and made his way down West Bourbon, hands in his pockets and dodging pedestrians.

  This was a popular area with college students and young professionals. Both sides of the street were lined with greasy restaurants, cheap bars, and hip boutiques like Wag-A-Lot and Berg’s Apothecary.

  Jacob had started his career in crime as a pickpocket. It was something he still did occasionally, mostly as a way of staying sharp. Over time, he’d worked his way up through a series of increasingly complex cons and from there into the world of cybercrime. These days, he did a little of both.

  He watched how the men and women around him moved, whether they staggered along in a zigzag or walked steadily forward. He noticed what they were wearing, if their coats were open or closed, if their hands were in their pockets, if the women wore their purses across their chests or over their shoulders.

  Jacob didn’t plan on stealing from anyone tonight. He was working something big, something involving Liam, and didn’t see any good reason to take the risk. Still, he couldn’t help looking for opportunities. It had become second nature.

  He stepped to the right to avoid a couple holding hands, to the left to avoid a pack of college kids. Then Jacob saw a man exit a bar at the corner of Belmont and West Bourbon. He was built like a boxer and “dressed for show,” as Jacob’s mom used to say. His tailored suit was probably Armani, his patent-leather shoes most likely Corthay.

  Jacob recognized him immediately. This man had been one of the first marks he and his partner had targeted. They’d worked a scam on him called The Ring. He’d caught on to it, though, and instead of simply taking off like so many others would, he’d beaten Jacob until he was just this side of unconscious and punched Jacob’s partner hard, leaning into the swing and connecting with her right eye before pushing her to the ground. That had pissed Jacob off, but there wasn’t much he could do about it at the time.

  The man turned in Jacob’s direction. The distance between them began evaporating quickly. Jacob’s fingers flexed the way they did sometimes when he was getting ready to slip his hand into a stranger’s pocket. He thought of himself as a man in control. He reminded himself that this chance encounter changed nothing. This probably wasn’t the first time he’d passed a mark on the street. The smart thing to do was leave him alone. Still, his fingers flexed.

  Jacob imagined waving the wallet in his partner’s face and saying, “Look what I got,” certain she would take as much joy from the theft as he would. He imagined this man going home, finding his wallet gone, and having nobody to punch but himself.

  Jacob looked to his right, pretending to be distracted. He had to do it, he decided. It would be justice—or, at least, justice of a sort. He stepped into the stranger’s path and they collided. “Oh, Christ, man. I’m sorry,” Jacob said, putting one hand on the man’s chest in a way that looked like he was trying to stabilize himself while at the same time reaching around to the man’s back pocket.

  The man pushed him away. “Idiot. Watch where you’re going.”

  “Sorry,” Jacob said again. He had his head down to make sure
the man couldn’t get a good look at him. His hands were now in the pockets of his wool coat.

  Grumbling, the man went on his way. Jacob watched him as he charged into the distance, putting five feet between them, then ten. He felt a rush of adrenaline as he fingered the wallet. He wondered what he’d find inside. Cash, hopefully. Credit cards, for sure. Probably a license and an insurance card. But sometimes there were other things too. Once he’d found a punch-out card for Al’s Beef that got him a free sandwich and another time he found a twenty-dollar gift card for Starbucks. He’d also found bus passes, dry cleaning tickets, and family photos.

  Jacob thought of those photos as little treasures, glimpses into a life that could have been his if he’d gone a different way. He’d keep them for a while, carrying them around in the pocket of his jeans until they were worn out and cracked, pulling them out every so often to wonder what might have been and, perhaps one day, what might be.

  The man was twenty feet away when he stopped, felt for his wallet, and spun around. “You little shit!” His square face was screwed up tight and his hands were curled into fists. He pointed at Jacob. “You think you can steal from me?”

  Everyone within earshot turned to look. Upon seeing the man, some checked the traffic and scurried across the street.

  Jacob broke into a sprint and the man came after him, moving just as fast. Jacob was slight and agile. He gracefully dodged pedestrians like a running back headed for the end zone. The mark, who might be able to stare down a bear if he had to, simply shouldered people out of his way.

  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?