That's the last line of the first chapter of my new claustrophobic thriller Winter Break: "And the floorboards are covered in blood."

I've dropped the complete first chapter below for you: a sample of the ill tidings to come in my heroine's snowbound week from Hell.

Enjoy.

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THURSDAY AFTERNOON

My phone dings with a new text just as I hit my first patch of black ice. The sound is like a warning: a scream announcing danger.

The little car’s wheels spin for half a second — not even long enough for my heart to beat twice. By the time my pulse is racing, everything feels safe again. This is how I live, Aubrey says: always just a little bit in the past, always responding to threats only after the threat is gone.

My eyes go to my phone, nestled in the cupholder. The brightened screen tells me that I’ve received a photo, not a message. I wish I could be surprised. I’m not.

My pulse, which was preparing to return to normal, quickens again.

I consider ignoring it. I tell myself the photo’s from Mom; she managed to get a bar or two of service up there and sent me a postcard-worthy snap of the view from the sunroom. I tell myself I’ll look at it later. It’s just for fun, no big deal. Nothing I need to deal with now. Why would I need to deal with it now?

But of course I need to deal with it now. My heart knows everything isn’t really back to normal.

I check the rearview, seeing no one. I haven’t passed another car in twenty minutes. And so after another quick glance at the road ahead, I slow a little and peek at the phone just like my Driver’s Ed teacher told us never to do. The screen unlocks. The new image comes up, part of the same message thread from the same unknown number as all the others.

This time, my mystery correspondent has sent me a snap of what might be a gray concrete floor with table legs in the distance. Like all the other pictures they’ve sent me, this one is low-quality and full of grain, askew and ill-framed, as if the photographer is a surrealist or drunk. There’s not much light. I’m seeing a shoddy camera — an unusually shoddy camera, as if the phone is ancient — do the best it can from somewhere dark and dank.

I spy a gas station ahead. It’s presumably the one my parents told me to keep an eye out for, because the turnoff to the cabin beyond is easy to miss. I pull in, pretending it’s because the last thing I want this far from everything is to run out of gas — not because these photos are giving me the creeps and I need a moment to collect myself.

I stop at a pump and take in my surroundings. The place is surrounded by trees, as if humanity here is making a desperate last stand against nature. The small building across the lot is one of those stations that’s half country store. Probably where the hermits and Unabomber types who live around here do their grocery shopping if they don’t want to make the hour-long trek into Leightonville.

I’m about to pick up the phone to look at the new image properly when it rings. I jump, but it’s only Aubrey. I put on a smile before answering, because Aubrey can hear facial expressions. It’s weird, but true.

“So you’re still communicado,” she says before I can manage Hello.

“What?”

“The opposite of ‘incommunicado.’ It’s a word.” She pauses. “Why are you agitated?”

I feel naked, the way she can see right through me even from over five hours away. “I’m not agitated,” I say.

“Of course you’re agitated. I can hear it in your breath.”

“You can’t hear anything in my breath.”

“You wanna test me, bro?” she chides. “I could tell you what you had for lunch.”

There’s laughter in her voice, but Aubrey never really plays around. She can pretend she just wanted to say hi, but I guarantee there’s a purpose to this call. It’s almost certainly to meddle — or, more likely, to try and save me from myself. Aubrey acts like she’s my mother sometimes, if my mother picked secrets apart like a detective. She’s assessing me right now. She’s fishing for something — probably trying to see if I’m as emotionally prepared for this trip as she keeps telling me I need to be.

The pause has gone on too long. Aubrey’s tone is almost guarded when she says, “What’s going on? Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“I just … Never mind.” But she sounds relieved. “You act like I’m butting in.”

“You are butting in. You always butt in.”

“Yeah, but it seemed for a second like you were sick of it.”

“I am sick of it, Aubrey.”

“Well, I know. But I’m so lovable that it all cancels out. Right?”

I sigh. “Why are you calling?”

“Mostly to see if I still could. Where are you?”

My eyes make a visual lap of the land. Right now, the scenery is beautiful. Some colorful leaves are still on the trees, which are tall enough to arch above the road in a micro-canopy. The snowstorm they’re forecasting will be the first big blow of the year, sure to finally drop those leaves to the ground. After that … well … after that, it’ll probably still be beautiful. And nerve-wracking, because I’m told the first storm in New England tends to be a bastard.

In the moment, my solitude is almost complete. There’s only one other vehicle at the station. Probably the clerk’s. It’s a rusty pickup truck, with chains on the tires. Chains. For serious snow. In my fuel-efficient import, I’m starting to feel the weather version of underdressed.

“Almost there,” I tell her.

“You’re already there? Jesus, when did you leave? Six? Seven?”

“We don’t all sleep in until noon, A. But no, I’m not there yet. I said ‘almost.’ I think I’ve got … what? Another half hour before I’m at the cabin?”

This brings my eyes to the passenger seat, where I’ve turned Google’s directions into a hand-drawn map. Mom warned me to do that. She says there’s usually no cell service in the foothills, although with clear skies like we have right now, texts sometimes go through. Counting on GPS, though? That would be a mistake.

“How’s the drive?”

“Like an Ansel Adams photo essay. Or a Bob Ross painting.”

“Wait. What?”

“A Bob Ross painting,” I repeat.

“Oh.” She chuckles uncomfortably. “Sorry. I thought …”

It takes me a moment to understand. She didn’t hear Bob the first time. She only heard Ross.

“No.” I make myself laugh. “I’m talking about happy little trees.”

“Oh.”

There’s weight in that simple Oh — more than usually comes with pity. The thing with me and Ross, Aubrey’s made herself part of it. Recently she’s as averse to talking about him as I’m supposed to be, as if what happened is her fault. And you know what? Maybe she should feel guilty. She hated when we started dating this summer, always explaining what an ass he was and how I could do better. She even invoked my parents, saying that any boyfriend I’m scared to tell Mom and Dad I’ve moved out of the Friend Zone is a boyfriend I shouldn’t have. From Go, she’s been rooting for our breakup … for my own good, of course.

“It’s beautiful here, Aub,” I say, trying to turn our moods around. “Mom said she was going to set an easel up in the sunroom and just sketch the entire time. I thought she was exaggerating, but now I sort of want to do the same thing.”

“Maybe you should. Give you something to avoid all the awkwardness.”

“I’ve tried. My ‘happy little trees’ always end up looking like blobs. Not ‘happy’ at all. I did not inherit the artist gene. I got all of Dad, not so much of Mom.”

I shouldn’t have said that. It was supposed to be a joke, but “what I got from Dad” invokes one trait in particular. They say alcoholism is heritable. It’s why I almost never drink. Why one of the biggest bones of contention between my folks and me back in high school was my social life: their worries about parties, or anywhere I might be tempted. The terrible thing that lives inside my father might, for all I know, live inside me as well.

“How are you doing?” Her voice is more earnest. “For serious.”

“Oh, now we’re into ‘for serious’?”

“For serious,” she repeats.

The false smile melts from my lips. I don’t really want to talk about any of this.

Not about the strange way Dad has chosen to celebrate the one-year anniversary of his sobriety — all of us hoping this time it’ll stick, and that his third try will be the charm.

Not about Ross, who’s stopped returning my calls and texts just like Aubrey predicted he eventually would — not that she thought it’d happen so soon, or that she’d be uncool enough to rub it in my face.

Not about the happy sticker this trip is trying to slap over my always-tumultuous relationship with my parents, or the fact that two weeks alone with them after a semester of college will be either wonderful (because they’ll honor the ways I’ve grown up these past few months) or a powder keg (if they keep treating me like a little girl).

Lastly, I don’t want to talk about the snowstorm the news has been predicting. Aubrey doesn’t know about that one. When we talked all of this out before winter break began, she said I should go on my parents’ weird little mountain adventure and try to make nice, but should consider her my safety valve. When Mom gets to henpecking (like she always does), I’m supposed to drive to somewhere with a cell signal and call Aubrey. When Dad starts questioning all my decisions, I should give Aubrey a ring.

It sounded like a good system while I was back at college. It still sounded good while I was at our empty family home these past few days, ostensibly packing extra gear but really procrastinating on our weeks in the woods. Now that I’m in the foothills, though, I’m noticing the system’s flaws. I can see how dense the trees are up ahead, and how convoluted the land is with rolling hills and valleys. There are a few cellular repeaters on the gas station roof, but my guess is they’re the only ones for miles.

Maybe the skies will clear and I’ll be able to call Aubrey from the cabin, but it’s more likely I’ll need an hour-long round-trip drive to this place if I want to vent without being heard on the landline. And if snow comes? If it’s bad enough to block us in? In that case, I won’t be able to drive anywhere. It’ll be the landline or nothing … assuming the landline doesn’t fail, which it might. If that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do. Just have to sit there with my parents, I suppose. With the mother who arranged every minute of my teen life and the father still fighting his demons.

The thought chills me: Demons.

Dad’s hope is that spending his one-year AA anniversary isolated will remove the element of temptation, seeing as he blew two previous anniversaries due to social triggers. If he’s away from home and his old drinking buddies, hopefully he won’t be tempted … especially since they won’t bring booze with them and AirBnbs aren’t supposed to stock liquor. And if we end up snowed in? Why, then it’ll be even harder for him to get alcohol. Maybe that’ll be enough to keep him from drinking.

I told Dad it’s a good idea, but secretly I keep wondering if either of them has seen The Shining.

“Miranda?” Aubrey prompts.

“I’m all right. For serious.”

“Just ‘all right’?”

“I could lie and say I’m great, but you never like it when I insult your intelligence. Or, you know, when I insult that nosy detective thing you do.”

“So … still nothing from Ross?” She sounds like she’s afraid of setting off a bomb. “He still hasn’t called or texted you back? Not about anything?”

“What ‘anything’ is there? I just want a response.”

The doom leaves her voice, turning her back toward the happy side of low-grade bipolar. “I thought maybe he’d have an excuse for not returning your texts. Like he got in a car crash or something.” Then: “No? I’ll just have to keep hoping.”

“It’s probably nothing,” I say.

“You know. Hoping he gets in a car crash.”

“I get it.”

“But if I could be serious for a second—”

“You? Serious?”

“It’s just that Ross isn’t who you think he is. He’s a liar. In fact, I found out just yesterday that—”

“AUBREY.”

She stops.

“We’ve been through this,” I say, stopping short of adding … and I’m tired of it. I’ve been hearing since we started dating that Ross was an asshole, but that wasn’t news. In high school, I always sort of liked him because he’s a scoundrel. Aubrey doesn’t like that answer, though. She’s doubled down on her protective, anti-Ross trash talk over the past week, probably to push me quickly into hatred in case he comes crawling back.

“Miranda …” Aubrey says.

“He’s just been too busy to get back to me. That’s all this is.”

“He’s been too busy to text his girlfriend back? For three days?”

“Hey. Life happens.”

“Honey,” Aubrey says. “I love you, but take the hint already. Some people are just emotionally immature. This is how immature people break up. They just stop engaging and wait for you to assume it’s over.”

I rub my forehead. I can’t believe that’s the answer. Ross and I are too new to end like this. We get along great, having spent years as acquaintances before we started dating. Before all the ghosting, I’d privately begun to think he might be the Love of my Life.

“He can’t just leave me hanging. He wouldn’t. Maybe he lost his phone.”

“Mmm-hmm. So why did he answer me when I texted him this morning?”

“He answered you?” No, wrong question. “Why were you texting Ross?”

“For you,” she says.

“You were meddling.”

“Of course I was meddling.”

“Well, what did you say?”

“I don’t know. Stuff.”

“And he answered you?”

“In like two seconds. But it’s not just me. Carla, Doug, Cassie, Ambrosia … He’s texted all of them since he stopped texting you.”

It feels like someone stepped on my heart. The skies, already dim, seem to darken. I don’t want to think about this right now — not with two weeks of crazytown parenting ahead of me. Not with Dad puttering around restlessly the whole time, trying to forget the way alcohol stills his torments before stirring up new ones.

“Just …” I trail off, unsure how to justify my way out of this but badly needing to. I need something to hold onto as I go into the next two weeks. Anything.

Aubrey must hear the desperation in my voice — the need for some hope, or good news. “Just what? What is it?”

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“Anything. You know that.”

“I need you to let me pretend there’s an explanation for what’s going on with Ross. Let me pretend I’m just being silly, worrying about the way he’s ghosting me. Let me believe he’ll text me back any minute now. I can’t …” I stop again, unable to say it aloud: I can’t face the fact that it’s really over. Not now. Not yet.

Aubrey almost rebuts me, then half-sighs. “Sure, believe whatever you want. He probably got too busy to call you back. For three days now. That could happen.”

“Or he lost his phone.”

“Or he lost his phone,” Aubrey repeats, even though she just told me he texted her back this morning.

I know I’m deceiving myself. I know Aubrey doesn’t believe what she’s saying — not for a second. She’s never liked Ross. The first time I looked into his eyes and he stared back into mine, I glanced over at Aubrey, and she was already wrinkling her nose like she smelled a rat. She hasn’t tried to break us up. That would be crossing a line. What she’s done is tried hard to talk me out of him. Ross is like smoking to Aubrey: a bad habit her best friend picked up and needs to kick ASAP for her own good.

“But Miranda? If we’re going to play pretend, you need to do something, too.”

“What?”

“Stop trying to call him. Stop texting him. You’ve already left messages. Anything more is just embarrassing yourself.”

“But what if he wants to explain?”

“Then he’ll be the one to get in touch. Not you. In fact …” She trails off, thinking.

“In fact what?”

“Well, I sort of think you shouldn’t answer if he does call.”

“But …”

“Seriously. You’re too reactive. Can we just talk a few more times before you talk to Ross?”

“We’re talking right now.”

“Talk talk,” she emphasizes. “Me and you. For real. I’m not saying don’t talk to him at all. I’m just saying don’t talk to him yet.”

“But—”

“If he gets back to you and says he wants to talk, call me first.”

“Why?”

“Just promise, okay?”

I sigh. I suppose it’s better to have helicopter friends than friends who don’t care, but at some point, Aubrey and I will need to chat about this overprotective thing. I’m a big girl. I appreciate that she has my back, but I can stand on my own two feet.

“Fine,” I say. “I promise I’ll talk to you before I talk to him.”

She exhales as if she’s just scored a deceptively important victory — one that almost tipped the other way. “Okay. Thanks.”

I kill the car’s engine, sending Aubrey from the car’s system to the phone. I pick it up, tell her to hang on, then start fueling. When I come back, my phone’s Messages icon — reminding me about that newest strange photo — catches my eye. It makes me cold.

“Aub,” I say, lowering my voice as if anyone could overhear in all this wilderness. “Have you ever had someone send random pictures to you?”

“What, like dick pics?”

“No. More like … I don’t know … totally random stuff.”

“I’m going to need some help here, Miranda.”

“I keep getting pictures from someone I don’t know. They’re of, like, a dark building somewhere.”

“Someone you don’t know is sending you pictures of a building somewhere,” she says in her I-just-want-to-make-sure-I’ve-got-this-straight voice.

“Well … just … Ugh, hang on.”

I pull the phone away from my face, then forward her the photos. There are five of them now, sent over the past few days. The number is visible, but a reverse search told me nothing about who it might belong to.

One photo shows a dark red toolbox under a bench in the distance, covered in cobwebs. One shows nothing but different shades of gray — the kind of thing you get when you accidentally take a picture inside your pocket. Two seem to show the legs of furniture, maybe a table and maybe a chair, with the ends of frayed blue rope visible nearby. The last shows the most: wooden walls and a window to the outside that’s either boarded over or shuttered.

“Why would anyone send these to me?” I ask.

“Hang on. I didn’t get whatever you’re sending yet. It says you’re typing.”

At the top of my screen, a progress bar indicates the photos are still being sent. My gas tank is full, the transaction is completed, and I’m back on car audio by the time Aubrey finally receives what I sent her. That’s what I have to expect for the next few weeks: glacially slow communication with the outside world … if there’s communication at all.

“Okay,” she says three minutes later. “I got them. So …?”

“Well, isn’t it strange?”

“Text whoever-it-is back. Tell them they’re sending to the wrong number.”

“You think it’s a wrong number?”

“Of course it’s a wrong number. Happened to me. Some lady thought I was a man named Clarence. She kept texting me about an upcoming visit, so I texted back the word ‘Obama’ over and over until she went away.”

“I thought you were supposed to tell her she had the wrong number.”

“That’s the boring way to do it. The way you’d do it.”

“I already texted whoever-it-is back,” I say. “A few times.”

“And?”

“No answer. Just more pictures.”

“So it’s someone stupid. Ignore them.”

“Don’t you think these pictures are … I don’t know … weird?”

“Weird how?”

I don’t answer, thinking instead. Truth is, I’m not actually sure how they’re weird — just that they are.

With the engine running and our call on speakers again, the phone is free for me to fiddle with. I look through each of the pictures, disquieted in a way I’d never be able to explain. They just feel strange to me: so quiet and lonely. They’re like those pictures you find online of so-called “liminal spaces”: abandoned malls from the 1980s, playgrounds without children where everything’s rusted into a still-life.

I can’t explain why the pictures I’ve been sent feel vaguely ominous, but they do. As if they weren’t sent to me by accident, but are instead an odd, unspoken taunt. Or a threat.

“If they’re weirding you out, block the sender,” Aubrey says.

“I could.” But I haven’t. And that’s something I can’t explain, either: Despite the way the photos bother me, I can’t bring myself to shut them off.

“Look, hey, I’ve gotta run,” Aubrey tells me. “I just wanted to check on you before I went to work.”

“Thanks. Consider me checked.”

“Call if you need me, M. Whenever you need me. Call if your parents are being stupid, or the boredom’s getting to you, or …” She trails off, but the last condition hangs in the air anyway: … or if it finally dawns on you that Ross dumped your ass, and the sadness starts to crush you.

“Sure.”

“And remember: If Ross tries to call, call me first.”

I try not to roll my eyes. “I remember.”

We say goodbyes and hang up. After that it’s just me again, all by myself in the car. With Aubrey’s voice gone, I’m suddenly more than lonely.

Alone in the world, maybe.

Aubrey’s my best friend, but I keep a small circle. Truth be told I’ve never really been able to count on my parents — not in the same way most kids can. Ross was supposed to be the tiebreaker: proof that as self-reliant as I’ve had to be most of my life, at least one person beyond Aubrey would always love me, always have my back.

I sigh and look ahead. Somewhere up there I’ll turn down a dirt road, and after a handful of turns and switchbacks, I’ll reach the cabin my parents rented for us to spend winter break together. To reconnect, while Dad does his very best to heal — for good this time.

I’m expecting the visit to be terrible, but maybe that’s unfair. I’m an adult now, same as them. Maybe we’ll start new, the way Mom keeps hinting. Maybe it’ll be great, and I’m wary for nothing.

I put the shifter in drive, but before I pull my foot from the brake, my phone chirps again. It’s another photo from my strange, anonymous correspondent … and unlike the pictures before it, this one chills me for a reason I can easily explain.

It’s the first shot with a person in it — a partial person, because I can only see what might be part of a leg. Maybe a foot. It’s hard to tell because the camera is poor, there’s not much light, and the photographer’s perspective is strange. It’s almost like they’re lying on a floor made of rough wooden planks.

There’s something dark, gnarled, and disgusting — like a steak that was shredded by an animal, then burnt black on the stove — in one corner of the foreground.

And the floorboards are covered in blood.

///

Curious what comes next?
​Winter Break is out now in ebook and paperback.

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NOTE: Winter Break is discounted for its first week, so be sure to grab it before the price goes up.

Happy reading!
-JT