Page 54 of Criminology of a Character

“Where’s his car then?” Bel asked, gooseflesh running over her skin at the idea that Jax Frost had been in the house the whole time, and they’d walked right into his trap. “It wasn’t in the driveway or on the street.”

“It was in the neighbor’s driveway,” the deputy said.

“What was it doing over there?” Bel asked.

“They had some sort of arrangement, I guess,” he said. “Frost traveled often for work, and he didn’t like his expensive car unattended when he drove the station vans. He worried leaving it for longperiods of timewould entice people to steal it, so he would park it at his neighbors so someone could keep an eye on it.”

“Or so no one would know he was home,” Olivia said. “It’s a decent alibi. If your neighbor is watching your car because you’re out of town on business, theywouldn’tsuspect you of being guilty of any crime committed intown.”

“Oh, yeah…” The deputy glanced at her as if the puzzle pieces had just snapped into place. “Anyway, this is what you need to see.”

“A darkroom?” Bel peaked through the doorway into a professionally organized workspace. “Frost was an award-winning freelance photographer. It makes sense he would develop hisownfilm.”

“No, not the darkroom.” The deputy nodded at the back wall. “Behind it.”

Bel stepped into the dim light and crossed the floor to the wall. At a distance, it appeared solid, but standing before it, she noticed the slits hidden in the paneling. She couldn’t find a handle, though, so she pressed her palm against it. A door clicked, popping open at the pressure, and she pulled it wide.

“Has anyone been inside yet?” she asked as she stared into the blackness.

“No,” the deputy said. “I opened the door, but when I realized what it was, I shut it and found you. Trust me, youneed tobe the first person in that room.”

Bel glanced over her shoulder at him, dreading the walk into that back room. She didn’t want to see what spooked him so profoundly that he’d shut the door and run away.

“I’m right here with you,” Olivia whispered. “We go inside together.”

“Thank you.” Bel clicked on her flashlight, Olivia following suit, and together, the partners stepped into the darkness.

The room was void of furniture, and for seconds, both detectives were confused as to why this had created such urgency within the deputy. It was empty… until Bel’s flashlight beam fell on a desk against the rear wall. Blank computer screens sat atop it, and she knew what the techs would find when they transported them back to the lab. This was how Frost watched them die. This is where he sat as they froze to death.

“Bel.” Olivia grabbed her wrist. “The walls.”

She’d been so fixated on the computer that she’d been blind to her surroundings, but as her flashlight beam illuminated the dark, everything within her froze as if she was back in that freezer with only dead girls for company.

“Oh my God.” Bel walked to the closest wall and dragged her fingers over the hanging photograph.

“Forty-two,” Olivia said. “There are forty-two photos.”

“Victoria Scotts.” Bel traced the photograph of The Matchstick Girl Killer’s first victim. “Carla Vans, Twyla Gates, Daphne Keating. They’re all here.” Bel paused before an unnamed Jane Doe. The image was hauntingly beautiful. They all were, but this one rooted her where she stood because the eerily haunting emotion that overtook her was unsettlingly familiar. She’d experienced it just that afternoon at the news station. Frost’s portrait of the woman and child held the same horror as this frozen girl’s image, and Bel finally understood Frost’s appeal to the rest of the world. They didn’t realize it, but they were viewing his subjects through the eyes of a serial killer, and his favorite muse had been women’s pain. Whether they were mothers from war-torn countries or frozen girls forever locked away below a barn, Frost had eternally captured their suffering with his images, and the critics loved him for it.

Bel lowered her gloved hand from Jane Doe’s photo and exited the hidden room to find forensics. Jax Frost was The Matchstick Girl Killer. They had irrefutable proof, and the world would no longer adore his work. She would make sure of it.

“How’s he doing?”Bel asked as she stepped into the hospital room. It was late, the scene at Jax Frost’s house requiring endless hours from her, and as much as she wanted to collapse into bed, she couldn’t go home without reassuring herself that Griffin was safe.

“He’s fine,” the sheriff’s wife said from where she sat beside his bed. “Tired, but they think he should be discharged tomorrow.”

“That’s good news.” Bel hugged his wife. She didn’t know her well, but after holding Griffin’s blood in her hands, she felt connected to the other woman in his life who loved him dearly.

“Thank God,” his wife said. “He faces risks every day as sheriff, but when I got the call that he’d been shot, I got sickover my toilet. I know you understand that.” She brushed Bel’s hair aside. “Lord knows, you’ve ended up in the hospital enough doing this job.”

“Emerson?” Griffin rolled over and squinted at her. “It’s late. Shouldn’t you be home resting? You had a hell of a day.”

“There’s no way I could sleep unless I checked on you.” Bel sat on the edge of his mattress.

“I’ll go get a coffee.” His wife rubbed her back. “Give you two a chance to talk.”

“Thanks, babe.” Griffin grabbed her hand and kissed her knuckles, waiting for her to leave before he turned to Bel. “How’s the scene?” he asked.

“We were right,” she said, capturing his hands in both of hers. “Jax Frost is The Matchstick Girl Killer. We found a hidden room in the basement with Rohypnol and photos. Forty-two photos.”

---