The Ice Box Murders Novels & Stories

“Somebody tried to get into the penthouse. They left something for the bride.” He handed me a small box. Within was a single photograph, ancient and decrepit. It was that which showed a little 10-year-old girl, hiding in a closet. She had her hand over her mouth and was looking at Nelson with fear in her eyes. Faint in the distance lay a man sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. I knew that scene. I'd seen similar ones before. This was the murder of someone, and it was caught on film.

I looked out at the faces—the Enforcers, the Healers, the Feral Followers. "The evidence is in the marks," I said, my voice steady. "The killer isn't a rogue. The killer is someone who has been trained to hit with the force of a professional athlete. Someone who uses the hockey rinks of Grimford as their hunting grounds." A murmur went through the crowd. "I’ve spent the last three days treating the injuries of this pack," I continued, looking directly at Victor. "And I’ve noticed a pattern. The 'accidents' on the ice match the 'murders' in the streets. Same impact zones. Same bone-shattering force."

The kind of exchanges that could survive being read aloud in a hearing room without damaging either of us. It should have been enough. For a while, it almost was. • Game two went to overtime, the building loud enough that I could still hear it ringing in my ears an hour after the final horn, and I came off the ice that night carrying an adrenaline I didn’t know what to do with, no outlet for it except my own empty apartment and a phone that stayed quiet unless I made it otherwise. I called her anyway. Not a text this time. An actual call, past midnight, breaking the careful boundary we’d set for ourselves without much deliberation behind the decision.

It was a gallery of photographs. Grainy, long-lens shots taken from hidden angles around campus. Me and Jaxson talking in the darkroom hallway. Me and him leaving the rink at 9:00 PM on Friday night. The perspective and angles were intimate and made it like a scandalous, hidden tryst between the school’s golden boy and a nobody. The headline above it was catastrophic: ‘THE ICE KING’S SECRET NOBODY’ ‘ Is Jaxson Rivers dating the disgraced lawyer’s scholarship daughter?’

It was calm and cold, completely professional. I leaned against the rough brick wall and tried to keep my tone light. “That’s one hell of a greeting.” Silence. The caller did not joke back or laugh. I rubbed the back of my neck and sighed again. “They’re talking again.” Another pause on the line. I could almost feel the temperature drop. “Explain,” the caller said. I rubbed my forehead with my free hand. My fingers came away slightly damp. “They got locked in a room together. The storage room. They talked.”

"Sort of. Secondhand." "Sort of," I agreed. I read all the way to tonight's entry. The pill case on the bench. Detroit. The article. Diane and the photograph on his shelf. Columbus, twice. The piece running. The folder burning in a wastebasket. The note in my skate. The phone call at one in the morning. "You still there?" Jax said. "I'm still here." "You went quiet." "I'm on the page about the folder burning in Diana Chen's wastebasket. I wrote it down the same night it happened. I didn't write anything about how I felt. Just the facts."

Keep it up and I’ll make sure you never see the ice again. Jax had learned to play the game. Fake smiles at girls at parties. Crude jokes with the team. Pretend. Survive. His mother was the only one who knew the truth, and even she begged him to stay hidden. And now this, this elegant little figure skater with the birthmark that matched the one burned into Jax’s memory, was standing naked ten feet away, completely oblivious.

And with the first punch thrown by Caspian , the hockey arena has turned into a boxing ring. Utter pandemonium breaks out as Caspian continues to land blows on Paul. The team boxes clear, everyone moving to the ice to either help break up the fight or start one of their own. The officials do their best to block anyone from getting closer, meanwhile a couple of our guys attempt to stop Beckett from using the ice owl's center as a punching bag. Paul must get a shot in on Caspian too, because when vak and brax try to pull Caspian away, his eyebrow is split, blood starting to spill down the side of his face.

The ones who had stolen her. The ones who had made her believe her father was dead. The ones who had filled her childhood with emotional coldness and manipulation. “They were trying to flee the country after news of the reopened investigation broke yesterday,” the inspector continued. “We believe they were tipped off.” Her knees gave out. Atticus caught her immediately, steadying her against his chest. “They’re in custody,” the inspector said firmly. “They’ll be extradited for formal charges. Kidnapping. Identity falsification. Conspiracy. Fraud.”

"So, you're saying that when it happened, that SUV was basically a sealed metal box. No one came in, and no one got out." I tightened the blanket around me, knuckles white as I gripped the edge. The words "sealed metal box" pressed down on my chest until I could hardly breathe. Why would they lock the doors like that? Normally, on a trip like this, you wouldn't lock up tight—it made getting out for bathroom breaks or whatever too inconvenient. The coroner kept going. "We'll check for mechanical issues. Odds are low, but it's possible there was incomplete combustion from the heater, maybe leaking carbon monoxide. Still, altitude sickness is the stronger theory."