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) 📖

“Has she always been like that?” asked a teller after Norma came in one afternoon, shouting at Byron for canceling her credit cards.

“Not always.”

She used to be kind and attentive. She used to care about her figure. And her hair, which then looked knotted and greasy most of the time, used to bounce.

But as the isolated years of a housewife took their toll, she exercised with increasing irregularity. She stopped changing from her nightgown unless she was going out and stopped wearing makeup altogether.

To fill the loneliness, she’d started shopping. Buying clothes and shoes she would never wear. Expensive hats with the tags still on them occupied one full shelf of her walk-in closet.

By the time Byron canceled her credit cards, she was spending more every week than he was making and plummeting them into so much debt that he was worried he might never get out.

He had hoped that when Ethan was born, the isolation Norma felt would subside. Maybe she would revert to the woman he had married.

But instead of a joy, she saw her new son as a burden—a project that consumed all her time and energy and offered nothing in return.

And the bitterness grew.

“Why not just divorce her?” asked the teller.

“That’s not an option,” Byron said. He believed that, when you married, you married for life. ’Til death do us part. That a spouse was expendable, that there was always a better wife—a better life—around the next corner was an idea that he considered modern and selfish.

“You play the hand you’re dealt, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

NOW

NOBODY SLEPT WELL. Especially Martin.

He tossed and turned on the cold rock. The air tasted stale. His windbreaker, which he was now using as a pillow, was uncomfortable.

Even worse was the sinking feeling that they might never get out.

He imagined them climbing deeper and deeper until they were too weak to move. Then, slowly, whatever flashlight or headlamp was left would fade out, and, hundreds of years later, somebody would find their remains—broken, old bones with no story to tell.

THEN

ETHAN WAS TEN years old and barely home from school when he heard his mother shout, “Get up here now!”

She was standing at the top of the stairs, wearing baggy blue jeans and an old sweatshirt. The rings around her eyes seemed bigger than they had that morning; her hair greasier.

“Yes, Mama!” Ethan shouted, and quickly wiped his feet on the mat. He knew better than to step onto the foyer’s white tile with dirt on his shoes. Norma was already furious.

He ran through the house to the living room. Every corner was crowded with expensive, antique furniture that was carefully placed and carelessly dusted. He dropped his books in a chair and ran up the stairs to where his mom was waiting—arms crossed, her face screwed on ugly.

As soon as he was within reach, she grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “What’d you call me?”

“I’m sorry!”

“My name’s Norma. How many times have I told you that? It’s not ‘Mama.’”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Don’t do it again!” She grabbed his ear and dragged him toward his bedroom, saying, “Now, come here.”

She threw his door open, shoved him inside. “Look at this mess!”

Ethan looked around. There were a few toys on the floor and his bed was unmade. Other than that, everything was in perfect order.

“This room is disgusting. I’d have better luck finding gold in a horse’s pile then finding anything in here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing and clean it up. I’m not going to live in this sort of filth.” She slammed the door shut behind her, leaving Ethan alone in his room.

NOW

MARTIN WOKE TO the soft beep of the alarm on his watch. He had barely slept for three hours. His muscles ached, his eyes burned. But they had agreed to make the nap short. With numerous tunnels behind them and numerous more ahead, they couldn’t afford to drift off for any length.

He rubbed his eyes and rolled over. In the dull yellow glow from the flashlight, he saw Ethan kneeling over Cynthia, watching her sleep. Ethan tilted his head one way and then the other, as if examining her from different angles. Martin pushed himself up with his hands. “What are you doing?”

Ethan glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll give you this, man, the bitch is pretty.”

“How long have you been watching her?”

He shrugged, but didn’t answer.

“Well, get away from her,” Martin said, standing up. But Ethan didn’t move.

Martin grabbed him by the arm and jerked him backward. Ethan fell, rolled, and hopped back to his feet. Several quick steps and he grabbed Martin by the shirt. “What’s your fucking problem?”

Martin looked around, away, anywhere but at Ethan’s face. “I don’t want you freaking her out, all right? Until we’re out of this cave, we’ve got to stick together. What do you think’s gonna happen if she sees you staring at her?”

At that moment, Cynthia woke up. “What’s going on?”

Ethan snarled at Martin and stepped away. “Nothing.”

THEN

THOUGH SHE NEVER raised a hand to him, the verbal abuse continued to escalate throughout Ethan’s teenage years. Norma told him he was too ugly to land a wife, too stupid to run his father’s bank.

By the time he was eighteen, he had taken all he could.

He cleared the dishes off the dining room table, full of rage and grinding his teeth. Norma had been criticizing his academic performance since they sat down for dinner and hadn’t stopped yet.

“I mean a ‘C’ in Algebra, what kind of crap is that? Do you think you’re going to a good school with those grades?”

Byron, still wearing his skinny black tie, wiped his lips and told his son not to worry about it. “I didn’t do well in Algebra, either.” It was the first time he had spoken since the meal began.

“Honey,” Norma said, taking Byron’s hands, “you were exceptional in all other areas. You can’t expect him to live up to your example.”

“He’s our son, Norma. He