He came to collect. His final payment was murder.

A smooth-talking salesman rolls into the small coastal town of Weyport with a coded list of debts and a long memory. Nobody gives him a second thought.

Until the man turns up dead in a motel room.

At first glance it looks like a heart that simply gave out.

Then Sheriff Angus Reid hears the anonymous call that reported the body.

And everything changes—he knows her voice.

And the harder Angus pushes for answers, the more he realizes that this stranger didn’t come to Weyport by accident.

Then a prominent member of the community vanishes without a trace, leaving Angus with a murder, a missing person, and the growing fear that the two cases are connected.

One buried sin. One killer who will do anything to keep it in the ground. One sheriff forced to decide how far he'll chase the truth when every road leads back to someone he cannot bear to suspect.

As Angus races against the clock to solve the mystery, he realizes the heaviest debt in Weyport was never that of the corpse found in a lonely motel room, or of the missing man in their seaside town, but the one he's been running from himself.

David's Debt is Book 9 in the bestselling Angus Reid Mysteries—a small-town Christian mystery thriller series set on the rugged coast of Maine, filled with buried secrets, clean suspense, faith-tested characters, and the kind of gasp-out-loud twist that keeps readers up long past midnight.

Perfect for readers who love clean, character-driven whodunits, redemptive Christian fiction, coastal mysteries, and small-town suspense where old secrets have deadly consequences.

Every Angus Reid mystery features a complete case and can be read as a standalone, while readers following Angus’s personal journey will find the continuing story woven throughout the series extra enjoyable.

Inspired by Psalm 32:3 - When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long.

Available direct from my author store in ebook, paperback, and audiobook (coming soon!), with reader-exclusive bundle options you won't find on the retailers.

Book 9 in the bestselling Angus Reid Mysteries series.

The town announced itself the way these places always did, with a sign half-swallowed by sea roses and a speed limit nobody meant. Russell Calder eased off the gas and let the car roll down into it, past the boat trailers and the ice cream stand and the church with its white steeple pretending at innocence. Pretty. They were always pretty, the towns where men went to disappear. That was the tell. A man who wanted to be forgotten picked somewhere with a view.

He found the motel where the map said it would be, set back from the road behind a row of shore pines, its vacancy sign buzzing against the last of the light. He parked at the far end, away from the office window, and sat a moment with the engine ticking. He was in no hurry. He had learned a long time ago that hurry was for people who were owed nothing.

When he was ready he leaned back and took his bag from the back seat before he stepped out into the salt air and crossed to the office. A bored clerk took his cash and slid a key across the counter without meeting his eye.

“Room eight, down at the end.”

He found the room and let himself in. It smelled of bleach and old carpet. He set his bag on the bed, drew the curtain against the parking lot, and turned on the lamp. Then he took out the ledger.

It was a cheap thing, black cover soft at the corners, the spine broken from years of being opened to the same pages. Other men kept their debts on phones now, in clean columns that synced to a cloud and could be subpoenaed out of the air. He kept his in ink. Ink didn’t forget, and ink didn’t testify. He sat on the edge of the bed and turned the pages slowly, as though through old photographs, and in a sense they were. Every name was a face. Every face had once looked at him across a table and believed him.

Most of them had paid, one way or another. Some had paid with money and some with fear and a few with things they hadn’t known were his to take. He ran a finger down the column until it stopped on its own, the way it always did, on the one name that had gone unpaid the longest.

He looked at it for a while. Then he uncapped his pen with his teeth and drew a slow circle around the name, once, twice, until the ink stood up off the page.

Funny, what a life could be built on. You put a sin in the ground and covered it over and built something respectable on top, a practice, a family, a pew near the front, and you let yourself believe the ground had closed. It never closed. Calder had made a study of that. The ground remembered where the bodies were, and so did he, and sooner or later he came back to stand on it.

He capped the pen and set it on the ledger and looked at the drawn curtain as though he could see through it, across the pretty little town, to the lit windows of a house where a man was sitting down to dinner and thinking himself safe.

“There you are,” he said softly, to no one. “Time to collect what’s mine.”

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