A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trus Reagan Keeter (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

waters that buried everything else. When Felix had shown it to Ms. Hawthorne, she’d noticed right away the name was wrong, and he had begun to hope that she would indeed be able to provide some information about it. But when she asked why he was showing her an ID with her brother’s picture on it, that hope vanished. Even if there might have been an innocent explanation, she wasn’t going to be able to tell him what it was during one of her episodes.

And then things got worse. Voice shaking, Ms. Hawthorne had accused Felix of playing a trick on her. She shouted at him to go, even as he tried to apologize and back away. She said it was mean to play a trick on a woman in her condition and that he should just leave, leave with his mean tricks and get out of there.

Felix put the ID in his briefcase and, when he got home, leaned his briefcase against the small table next to the door where he left his keys. He would call the police in the morning, he’d thought, mentally adding it to tomorrow’s growing to do list. It was the decision he should have made from the beginning.

Felix tried not to get emotional about what this would mean for Ms. Hawthorne. While his predecessor wouldn’t have cared, he couldn’t help it. Try as he might to stay in the moment, he felt the music losing its spell over him. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The only light in the apartment came from a streetlamp placed directly outside his window. It filtered through and around the curtains, making him squint, and destroying the last of the magic the music held. All the stress of the day returned and was compounded by all he knew he had to do tomorrow.

There was no point in trying to get back into the music. The moment was gone. Felix pressed a button on the remote to turn off the stereo. Perhaps because he had nothing better to do, he took the ID out of his briefcase and studied it again. He’d only seen a fake ID one other time in his life. His son, who was now an adult and living in California, had one when he was nineteen. Felix had grounded him for a month. That ID, though, had clearly been fake. Felix never found out if his son had been successful in buying alcohol with it. If he had, it was because the cashier didn’t care. This ID was on another level. If Felix didn’t know the man in the picture, he would have thought it was legit.

What would he have done if that had been the case? he wondered. Nurses and visitors alike had turned in lost scarves, hats, and jackets. They had turned in single gloves, two decks of playing cards, and once a glass baking tray with unfinished brownies in it. All but the tray of brownies had gone into a large plastic bin Felix kept in his office. (The tray of brownies would’ve made a mess, so he kept it on his desk.) Most items, including the tray of brownies, were claimed within a couple of days. The few that went unclaimed for more than three months he either donated to Goodwill or threw away.

An ID, though, was not like the other items. It didn’t belong in a large plastic bin. It was important. So what would he do? The question was entirely academic since he knew this was not simply a lost ID. Still, he thought through the answer, building a blueprint for him to follow should the issue ever arise.

Since Felix didn’t know the names of every person on staff, he would start by checking the HR system. If that didn’t work, he would search the residents database by last name. Then, if necessary, he would check the visitor logs for the last—how may days?—three days. He couldn’t imagine a lost ID going undiscovered for that long, but it was best to be thorough.

But not every visitor’s name went into the log. What would he do then if he still hadn’t turned up a phone number? Would he have any choice other than to drop it into the plastic bin with all the other lost items? Even if he did, would he bother pursuing it?

The answers to all three questions were, respectively, nothing, probably not, and no. At some point, it simply wasn’t his problem. But since this was entirely academic, and since his curiosity had gotten the better of him, he looked up the name Christopher Bell on his computer in the bedroom. Several listings came up. On a whim, he did another search, this time including the address. Since the ID was fake, he didn’t expect a match. But there was one—it was one of those sites that harvested personal data—and it included a phone number.

Christopher Bell

After Arkin had thumped Rick on the back of his skull and dragged his body behind a dumpster, he’d searched Rick for a hotel key and returned with Chris to the Best Western to scour Rick’s room. They hadn’t found the ring. Arkin had asked Chris what he wanted to do, and Chris had said he didn’t know.

Privately, Chris regretted bringing Arkin along. Arkin fed his worst instincts. He might have beaten Rick unrecognizable if he’d gotten the chance (and he still might), but he wouldn’t have chased Rick through a crowded grocery store if he had been on his own. He wouldn’t have fired a gun at the thief. (Arkin had said he missed Rick on purpose, but Chris had his doubts.) He wouldn’t have broken into Rick’s apartment or hotel room. Chris had his reputation to think about.

But when Arkin had said that if Chris wanted the ring back they couldn’t leave Rick where he was, Chris didn’t insist they put an end to the madness. He didn’t tell Arkin they should turn him over to the police. What