She pushed the coats to the side and looked at the wall behind them. It was immediately apparent that there was something behind it. Tiny rays of light snuck through a barely visible slit between sections of the wall. Jessie tapped on a section near the slit. It was hollow. She felt around until she found a notch the protruded out from the wall slightly and pressed on it. It gave way and the wall panel popped open, revealing a room behind it.

Jessie took a deep breath and stepped inside, looking around. The room seemed innocuous, almost as if it was a panic room without the security measures. There was a twin bed in one corner. Against the back wall was a chair with a small desk with a spiral notebook on it. She walked over and thumbed through it. It was comprised of handwritten short stories, general musings and poems—nothing horribly offensive. The room really did seem to be a temporary safe room in which to hole up if a crazed fan busted into the house.

Jessie sat down in the chair, disappointed. She realized she’d been harboring unreasonable hopes that the room would provide obvious evidence of Collison’s guilt. It wouldn’t have been the first time that a stalker kept hidden mementos of the target of his obsession. It fact, it was fairly common. But apparently Jett Collison was just a twenty-something actor who liked easy relationships with hot chicks and didn’t want to get murdered by a psycho fan.

She put her elbows on her thighs and rested her head in her hands with her eyes closed, trying to determine where else to go with the case. Collison was their last serious suspect. If he didn’t pan out, they’d be back to culling through old messages from the dating site and trying to make connections from dubiously relevant texts. The prospect wasn’t appealing but it was all they had.

She opened her eyes again, determined to embrace the slog that was investigative work. Not every case got solved because of a brilliant flash of insight. In fact, far more often it was simple shoe leather investigating.

She was about to get up and go downstairs when she saw a small plastic bin underneath the twin bed across the room. She walked over and knelt down, tugging it out. There was something inside but the white bin’s coating made it hard to see. The top was sealed shut like a Tupperware container but she managed to pry it open.

Inside was a small photo album. She opened it and gasped. Every picture was of Claire Stanton. A few were posed but most were candids. Some were obviously taken surreptitiously. A few were of her lying asleep in the bed in the bedroom, naked.

She put the album down and looked at the other two items in the box. One was another sealed container, this time smaller and circular. She popped it open. Inside was what amounted to a fistful of human hair. It was same shade of blonde as Claire’s.