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) 📖

situation. At its thickest point, the stalactite was wider than four men. Only Paul’s right foot poked out from underneath it. His left leg was entirely flattened.

Martin ushered Ethan over to help, and they tried uselessly to lift the stalactite at its tip. “It won’t move,” Martin said. Paul swore through grinding teeth. “Cynthia. Gina. Help us lift this thing.”

But even with the four of them, the tip of the stalactite only came a couple of inches off the ground. When it dropped, Paul screamed again.

“This isn’t working.”

“We’ve got to do something,” Gina said. Her bottom lip trembled like she might cry.

“Is there another way out?” Cynthia asked.

Paul spastically shook his head, did his best to say, “Not . . . that I . . . I’ve seen.”

“Well, this sucks,” Ethan said.

Then Gina did start to cry. She placed her hands on Paul’s cheeks, told him she loved him.

Cynthia glanced over at the rubble-filled tunnel. “I guess we better start digging.”

Like most quakes of its size, the one that nearly killed Paul was an isolated incident. It would also likely be the last major quake to hit the East Coast for another hundred years. But these facts provided little comfort to the five cavers, especially after the light on Ethan’s helmet went dead.

“Piece of shit!” Ethan said.

He threw his helmet on the ground while Gina worked the backpack off Paul’s shoulders, found the first aid kit inside. Sniffling to restrain further tears, she wrapped the Ace bandages he’d brought around the visible part of his thigh. “That should slow the bleeding.”

“If we’re gonna get out of here, we’re going to have to do it another way,” Ethan said. “Digging through this rubble’s getting us nowhere. Hell, we’d do better diggin’ through a horse’s pile looking for gold.”

Then, through raspy, heavy breathing, Paul told everyone but Cynthia to turn off their headlamps.

“Why?” Martin asked.

“The batteries . . . won’t last . . . if used too much. . . . Use one . . . at a time,” he said.

Martin and Gina did as they were told while Cynthia used her headlamp to scan the space they were in. The light crossed over the large opening where Paul had said they’d be headed next, but Cynthia didn’t seem interested in that.

“What are you doing?” Ethan asked.

Her light rippled over a small hole along the west wall. “Where’s that go?”

“Don’t . . . know,” Paul said.

Cynthia turned her attention to Ethan and Martin. “We have to try to find another way out. It’s like you said, Ethan. Digging’s not going to cut it. We have been at this for a while and, for all we know, the entire passage is sealed off.”

“Paul said there isn’t one,” Gina said.

“He said he doesn’t know. He’s never been there.” Cynthia pointed toward the opening she’d seen. “I think we have to try.”

Martin dug through Paul’s backpack to inventory the supplies he’d brought. He found a compass, tongue depressors with reflective tape stuck to both ends to use as trail markers, five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (now smashed), and several small bottles of water. He swung the backpack over his shoulders. With Paul’s permission, he also gave Ethan Paul’s helmet. They would need the headlamp more than he would.

Gina had insisted on staying with Paul so that she could look after him. Just before the others left, she met with them by the west wall and quietly said, “He doesn’t have more than a couple of days.”

Martin hugged her and said everything would be okay. He didn’t bother to point out that if they didn’t find a way out soon, none of them had much longer than that. Then he, Ethan, and Cynthia disappeared into the narrow opening Cynthia had found.

THEN

I LOVE YOU.

Martin had said that to Cynthia a thousand times in his dreams. And every day, before she’d left for California, he had wanted to say it for real. But the timing never seemed right—and even when it was, he still told himself it wasn’t.

The closest he ever came to telling her was the night he said, “There’s something we need to talk about.”

They were lying on the roof of his mother’s house, looking at the stars. She had been curled up silently with her head on his shoulder for half an hour. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s just, I . . .”

She pushed herself up with one hand so that she could look at Martin directly. “Would you relax,” she said, with a smile. “You can tell me anything. You’re my best friend.”

“I know, but . . .” He trailed off again.

“Come on, Martin. You’ve listened to me talk about Jeff all night. It’s your turn.”

Jeff was Cynthia’s ex. They had dated for six months. And when things ended, they didn’t end well.

Jeff had told her that he had been seeing another woman for a month. She was low maintenance and wasn’t looking for a commitment. (Cynthia translated that into easy and expendable, which hurt her even more.)

“Well,” Martin said, “what if I knew someone who really likes you?”

“That’s sweet, but I don’t think I’m going to be dating anybody for a while. Not after Jeff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. There’s no point, you know? We’re graduating in spring, and then I’ll be off to California. Why bother?” Then she laid back down, put her head back on Martin’s shoulder, and, after another minute of quietly watching the stars, said, “Just for fun, who is it, anyway?”

Martin stammered until Gina shouted from the window: “Dinner’s ready!”

NOW

MARTIN PUSHED THE backpack in front of him as they slid between two pieces of flat rock. The air was colder here, the rocks slightly damp.

After crawling a slow forty feet, they found themselves at the edge of a deep chasm. There was no way around it and nothing on the other side but a wall of earth. They would have to go down.

“What’s this shit?” Ethan said.

Martin pulled his flashlight from his pocket and shined it over the side. He hoped that, with Cynthia’s headlamp, they would be able to see the bottom.

They couldn’t.

“Maybe we should go back,” Martin said.

“And wait to die?”