THE WIDOW’S HOLIDAY

  A SHORT PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

  WINTER K. WILLIS

  CONNECT WITH WINTER

  Winter K. Willis is a pseudonym for our two-person writing team. We like to think of it as our band name. We love telling our characters' stories and hope that you enjoy reading them.

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  www.winterkwillis.com

  Copyright © 2025 by Winter K. Willis

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Celestial Bear Publishing

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The content of this book is for entertainment only and does not constitute as health, medical, legal or financial advice. Purchasing and/or reading this book does not retain consulting services from the authors in any capacity. For any health-related inquiries, please contact your healthcare providers.

  ALSO BY WINTER K. WILLIS

  THE ASSISTANT SERIES:

  THE ASSISTANT

  THE CUSTODIAN

  THE JOURNALIST

  THE PSYCHIATRIST

  THE SEARCH PARTY

  THE COUNCILWOMAN

  THE COLLECTIVE

  STANDALONES:

  THE WIFE INSIDE

  HOW THE AFFAIR ENDS

  BEHIND THE NEIGHBOR’S DOOR

  THE PERFECT GIFT

  THE PERFECT EX-WIFE

  THE LAST CHANCE

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Also by WINTER K. WILLIS

  A Letter From Winter

  Connect with Winter

  PROLOGUE

  The lights are dim. Only the soft rumble of the hyperloop fills the silence. A shadow moves with slow, deliberate purpose. Plastic sheeting is unrolled and smoothed across the floor of a private train suite. The material glints like ice. Two gloved hands press the corners flat and then tape them down. A syringe rolls against the counter. It stops near a neatly arranged collection of zip ties. The hands pick up one zip tie, test its strength with a quiet tug, and set it back in place.

  The figure stands in the middle of the small, spotless room. The train hums beneath the floor. The hands adjust the overhead light so that the glow falls in a perfect circle at the center of the plastic. Everything is ready.

  The room is prepared for death.

  1

  Istand in my kitchen, staring at a half-finished cup of peppermint tea. The steam has thinned to nothing, and the tea is cold. My entire house feels cold, in fact. Or maybe it’s just me. December always sinks into my bones. The cold feels sharper this year. Maybe that’s what happens when you spend your first holiday season truly alone.

  I wrap my arms around myself and try to breathe. The house smells faintly of pine from the small tree in the corner. There is a candle burning on a mantle. It should feel festive. It should feel comforting. It only makes me feel like a guest in my own life.

  I look down at my phone and reread the message from my stalker.

  Come on. I always know where you go, Holly. The airport is too easy. See you there.

  My hand trembles as I lock the screen.

  I’ve already told the police. More than once. When the packages showed up at my door. When the notes were slid under my windshield wiper. When he hacked my email and sent a message from my own account. They shrugged. Fame attracts strange people. That was their answer. Thriller authors collect odd fans. That was another.

  Except this is not a fan. This is someone who believes I belong to him. He has even threatened to pay my aunt a visit, which I know enough to understand the coded language. As terrified as I am, I will do anything for family, which is why I’ve chosen to spend my holiday differently this year.

  My phone rings. I jump, then force myself to breathe before I answer.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Aunt Marian’s voice is thin and tired, but warm. She always sounds warm, even when she’s too sick to leave her bed. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “I’m packing,” I lie. “I’ll be there soon. I promise.”

  “You don’t have to visit me if you don’t want to.” She laughs softly and coughs twice. “You’re always so loyal. People like us survive because we learn to take care of ourselves. We don’t need anyone else to do it for us.”

  I press my free hand to the counter to steady myself. “I know. I just… I want to be there.”

  “Travel safe,” she says. “Use your instincts. They’ve always been good.”

  We hang up. I stare at my phone for a long moment. She’s right. My instincts are flaring like alarms.

  If I go to the airport, I will be a sitting duck.

  I open my laptop and go over the train routes for the millionth time. The hyperloop bullet line runs through desert country and into my aunt’s city. Almost completely non-stop. No open platforms. No easy access points. Plus, my aunt used to work for the hyperloop; she knows all the ins and outs and exactly how to be safe there. I recheck my itinerary and calm my mind.

  I pull my small suitcase from the hall closet. I toss in clothes without thinking about colors or outfits or anything normal. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. The shadows in the house press in on me. Every window looks like a viewing screen. Every corner feels like someone could be waiting.

  I zip the bag and grab my coat.

  The final text from him repeats in my head.

  See you there.

  I stand in my living room for a moment and take one last look at the darkened house. The tree. The folded blanket on the couch. The framed photo of my husband by the bookshelf. I touch the frame lightly and then turn away before the grief can settle in again. My husband drowned in our pool last Thanksgiving, when I was out of town on a book tour. They say there was no foul play, but I find that hard to believe, given that he was a great swimmer. He also didn’t drink, and the autopsy confirmed it wasn’t a factor. Holidays are the hardest times. Especially when you were never given answers.

  I lock my door and pull the hood of my coat up. The cold air bites at my cheeks. The street is quiet except for the distant hum of holiday traffic. I roll my suitcase behind me and head toward the rideshare pickup zone at the end of the block.

  The wind rattles a loose strand of tinsel from the porch rail. It skitters across the pavement like something alive.

  I feel watched, but I don’t want to hang out long enough to find out. It’s only a few moments before I hop into a rideshare.

  I’ve never seen my stalker; I’ve just received unwanted gifts and messages. Somehow, that makes it way worse. I never know if it’s a passerby or a smiling cashier at the grocery store. All I know is they know where I live and that I usually visit my late husband’s grave on Christmas. That’s where I received the first note. Things have escalated since then, and I’m not sure if I can even be back at my home before it’s resolved. I already know they’ve been inside because of the bottle of champagne they left on my counter after last week’s book release. I’ve stayed in a hotel since then and have only come back for my luggage.

  Once the ride is over, I tighten my grip on my luggage handle and head to the train terminal.

  I am not running away from this weirdo. I am running toward a place he does not expect.

  The train will be safer. It has to be.

  2

  The hyperloop terminal is already overflowing by the time I arrive. Families with matching Christmas sweaters cluster near the ticket kiosks. College students drag duffel bags along the polished floor. A man in a Santa hat argues with his toddler about candy canes. Holiday music echoes through the vaulted ceiling, too cheerful and far too loud.

  I keep my head down and move through the crowd. Every time someone bumps my shoulder, I flinch. Every phone held up for a selfie feels like a camera pointed at me. Every laugh sounds like it’s aimed in my direction.

  I remind myself that no one knows who I am. Not like that. I’m not a movie star. I’m a name on a bookshelf. Most people walk right past me without a second glance. But the stalker knows my face. He has proven that again and again. He knows where I shop. He knows where I park. He knows where I like to sit in my favorite café. If he thinks I’m flying today, he might already be at the airport waiting for me.

  These thoughts push me faster toward the departure gates.

  I check the time. Twenty minutes until boarding.

  I join the security line and slide my bag onto the conveyer belt. I try to steady my breathing. I try to pretend I’m simply another traveler heading to see family. Nothing unusual. Nothing dangerous. But fear has a way of sinking into the seams of everything. It makes the lights seem sharper. It makes the voices surrounding me sound distorted.

  As I pull my suitcase off the scanning table, someone beside me drops their paperback copy of The N
ightfall Murders. My book. A worn copy. The spine cracked and pages dog-eared. The woman kneels to grab it before it slides away.

  “Sorry,” she says, laughing as she scoops it up. “These things just leap out of my hands.”

  She stands and gives me a bright smile. She is about my age. Dark curls. A soft red scarf. Warm brown eyes. She radiates the kind of easy energy that makes people want to sit next to her.

  “That’s a good one,” I say before I can stop myself.

  “Oh, I know.” She holds the book up. “Have you read it?”

  A small pulse jumps in my throat. “Once or twice.”

  “I’m trying to finish it before we board,” she says. “I already know the twist is coming. The part where the best friend turns out to be the...”

  She stops herself. “Sorry. I ramble sometimes.”

  My heart stutters.

  She senses my pause. “I’m Julia, by the way.” She offers her hand.

  I take it. “Holly.”

  “Oh, I guess that must be a common name nowadays. It’s the author’s name...”

  “Yeah, it’s kinda common, I think.”

  “Traveling far?”

  “Just visiting family.”

  “Same. My sister.” Julia tucks the book into her tote. “I love traveling during the holidays. It feels like everyone is buzzing with energy. You can tell who is excited and who is stressed out of their minds.”

  “Which one do I seem like?”

  Julia studies me for a moment. “Somewhere in the middle.”

  A small laugh escapes me. She’s easy to like. Too easy, maybe. I remind myself not to relax. Not here. Not yet.

  We walk together toward the escalators. She chats about the long line at the café, how she regrets not getting the gingerbread latte, and how someone behind her wore enough perfume to suffocate the entire terminal. Her voice is warm and steady. When she talks, it almost feels like a normal day.

  Almost.

  We go separate ways near the boarding platforms. Julia waves to me with a cheerful smile. “Maybe we will end up near each other on the train.”

  “Maybe.”

  I don’t know whether Julia was baiting me to tell her who I am or whether she dropped her book deliberately to talk to me. These types of paranoid, borderline-narcissistic thoughts drive me crazy, so I try to push them aside. I have to head to the restroom before I board.

  When I get back to the gate, I scan my ticket and step into the boarding queue. The doors open with a soft hiss, and passengers begin filing onto the train. The interior glows with soft blue light and brushed metal finishes.

  I make my way down the aisle to my assigned seat. When I reach it, my breath catches.

  Julia is already sitting there.

  She looks up with surprise. “Oh my gosh. Holly. We really did end up next to each other.” She laughs and pats the empty seat. “Small world.”

  I force a smile as I slide into the seat. “Very small.”

  Maybe it’s harmless. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I try to believe that.

  The train fills quickly. Bags thump into overhead bins. People shuffle coats and settle in. Julia pulls out her phone and begins typing. Her fingers fly across the screen like she’s in the middle of an intense conversation.

  My phone buzzes.

  A spike of dread shoots through my chest. I look down at the screen.

  Unknown Number:

  You finally arrived. We can spend the holiday together now.

  My throat tightens. My pulse roars in my ears. I grip the phone so hard my hand aches.

  I look at Julia.

  She’s still typing. Still smiling faintly at her screen.

  My stomach twists. I swallow hard and lean forward so I can see the aisle. A uniformed security guard is checking seat numbers two rows ahead.

  I rise from my seat, trying not to draw attention.

  I need help. Real help.

  Before this train starts moving.

  3

  The security guard looks confused when I flag him down, but he steps closer with a polite nod. He has a broad jaw and steady eyes. The kind of face that should make me feel safe.

  “What can I help you with?” He asks.

  “I need to move seats,” I whisper. “Please.”

  He glances at my row. Julia is still there, scrolling on her phone, oblivious.

  “Are you traveling with her?” He asks.

  “No.”

  “Is she bothering you?”

  I hesitate. If I say yes, it sounds too dramatic. If I say no, he will probably walk away.

  “Look,” I say, lowering my voice even more, “I just need another seat. Preferably not next to anyone.”

  He frowns. “We are at full capacity. Every compartment is booked. But let me check with the attendant and see if there is any flexibility. Wait here.”

  He heads down the aisle and leans in to speak with one of the attendants. I watch them whisper to each other. The attendant nods and steps toward a touchscreen near the exit.

  My heart pounds. I keep my eyes on Julia. She is still texting at full speed. Her expression softens as she types, like she is smiling at whoever is on the other end.

  My phone vibrates in my hand.

  I don’t want to look. I look anyway.

  Unknown Number:

  If you ask for help again, I will hurt you and later your aunt.

  My breath stops. The lights in the train car feel too bright. The noise too loud. For a moment, I feel outside my own body, suspended in a thin layer of panic that makes it hard to hear anything clearly.

  Julia is still oblivious. Maybe it’s not her.

  I have to think about my aunt. My only remaining family. The stalker knows where she lives. They know she’s sick. I know this for sure by the mail they have intercepted sent by my aunt. If I push this any further, they might actually hurt her.

  The attendant returns with the guard.

  “Ma’am?” She says gently. “We checked the manifest. Unfortunately, every seat is taken.”

  I swallow and shake my head. “I’m fine,” I manage. “I… I overreacted.”

  “Are you sure?” The attendant asks. There is concern in her eyes.

  “Yes,” I lie. “Thank you.”

  They leave. I can feel their confusion as they walk away. I don’t care. I’m too focused on the silent pressure building behind my ribs.

  I can't sit still. I can't breathe next to Julia, whether she is dangerous or not. I stand and move down the narrow aisle while keeping my head down so no one looks at me directly.

  The train rocks gently as I walk. I pass the luggage alcove and then the doors leading between cars. Each door opens with a soft hiss. Each new compartment feels the same. Packed. Loud. Full of holiday chatter that grates on my nerves.

  I reach the dining car and find a laminated sign taped across the entrance.

  Closed for deep cleaning.

  The lights inside are dark except for a single glow near the kitchen area. I try not to imagine why a dining car needs a deep cleaning on one of the busiest travel days of the year.

  I continue on.

  The bar car is next. It’s overflowing with people. Standing room only. Tourists shouting over each other. Laughter. Music. Glasses clinking. The smell of spilled beer and peppermint schnapps. Not a single empty table.

  No chance of hiding there.

  I back away and move toward the restrooms. There is a line of at least ten passengers stretching down the aisle. A toddler cries while her mother tries to soothe her. Someone coughs. Someone else is loudly complaining that the train should have planned better.

  Nowhere to sit. Nowhere to breathe.

  I turn around, ready to head back to my car, even if it means sitting next to Julia again, when a familiar voice floats toward me.

  “Holly?”

  I freeze.

  Julia stands a few feet away, her tote bag slung over one shoulder. She smiles when she sees me. It’s the same bright, unguarded smile she had in the terminal.

  “There you are,” she says. “I thought maybe you got off the train before we left. You looked upset.”