The Widow’s Game

She didn’t shed a single tear because she was sure that someone in the crowd had killed him, and she was going to find out who.

The wind tugged at the hem of her black long dress as if it was daring her to move, to flee, to disappear into the line of cars parked in the parking lot. But Genevieve Holloway stood rooted at the graveside of her husband, her gloved hands clasped loosely in front of her.

The casket shone under the weak sunlight—polished mahogany, gold-plated handles, expensive and spotless. Just like him. Even in death, Charles Holloway looked perfect. Or rather, the image of him that they presented to the world did.

Genevieve had been married to him for three years. Three long, beautiful, ugly, pretentious years. And now here he was—six feet of rot and secrets about to be lowered into the ground with everyone pretending that he was a saint.

Mourners surrounded her in solemn, carefully choreographed grief. His business associates, political allies, an aging senator, a sprinkle of socialites who would’ve loved to sleep with him but now held their designer handkerchiefs tightly like crosses driving away sin. And then there were the neighbors, people who didn't really know Charles, but showed up anyway—for the performance, for the power proximity and the pictures.

Genevieve stood beside the priest as he recited hollow words, her face was a mask of stoic beauty. Not a single tear escaped because beneath the silk veil draped over her eyes, she wasn’t just mourning, she was also watching and studying the people around her.

Somewhere in the crowd, she was certain, stood the person responsible for his death.

Her husband Charles, had died in a car accident. That’s what they had called it. Brake failure. A tragic mechanical malfunction that couldn’t be avoided. Except Charles never drove. Not unless his driver called in sick—and that had not happened in two years.

And then there was the sealed autopsy. No press. Everything was too neat, too fast, too perfect and very suspicious.

A cold hand brushed hers. “You seem like you’re holding up well,” her mother-in-law whispered. Margaret Holloway had skin like porcelain and words that were like razors. “You’ve been very... poised.”

Genevieve turned her head slowly. “I’m fine.”

Viola’s eyes narrowed. “Grief shows itself in strange ways, dear. But silence? That’s often the loudest cry.”

Genevieve offered a soft, sad smile—the kind she had mastered over years of attending charity galas and dinner parties. “I’ll scream later.”

Viola didn’t smile back.

The priest was finishing now. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Someone behind her sniffled loudly, almost theatrically. Probably Marla Stanford—Charles’s former assistant, the one who wore lipstick too red and skirts too short. Genevieve didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to see the crocodile tears.

One by one, mourners stepped forward, dropping white roses into the open grave.

When it was her turn, Genevieve walked toward the open grave alone, the wind making the veil on her head flutter against her skin.

She knelt down, paused, then reached into the black clutch in her hand. She reached for a key.

It was small, gold and worn at the teeth. She held it for a moment between her fingers, then let it fall on the casket with a soft metallic clink.

There.

Let them bury his secrets too.

The rose came next, but with far less ceremony. She dropped the rose into the grave and stood, then she stood up. As she turned and looked up, she froze.

At the edge of the graveyard, near the curve of the road where the cars were parked, stood a woman in black. A veil darker than night shielded her face, but Genevieve could feel her gaze on her like a needle piercing her spine. The woman didn’t move or flinch. She simply waited and continued watching.

Genevieve blinked—and the woman was gone.

She shook her head. She was seeing things. It must be fatigue. That’s all it was. She hadn’t slept in days. Weeks even, if she counted the months leading up to Charles’s death, when she started wondering if her marriage was a performance she never auditioned for.

She returned to the front row of the mourners. One by one, guests made their way down the hill, some offering soft condolences, others offering pity she didn’t need.

Marla Stanford approached her from the crowd of people leaving. Marla was always perfectly groomed and too close to her late husband. Genevieve knew she was one of the many women her late husband had cheated on her with. Marla didn’t try to hide it either; she always acted like the second wife around Genevieve.

“I’m so sorry,” Marla said with saccharine sympathy. “He was… larger than life, wasn’t he?”

Genevieve stared at her, ignoring her question. “You look well.”

Marla tilted her head, smiling slightly. “I left him two days before he died, you know. He didn’t take it well. Called me irrational.”

Genevieve raised an eyebrow. “He called all women irrational when they stopped obeying.”

Marla flinched.

Genevieve leaned in, her voice calm. “Tell me something, Marla. What did he keep in that locked drawer?”

Marla’s eyes widened—just for a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Genevieve studied her quietly.

Marla cleared her throat, visibly uncomfortable under her gaze. “I’ll take my leave now, take care, Mrs Holloway.” Marla turned to leave without waiting for Genevieve to respond.

Genevieve watched her leave with the remaining group of mourners.

The last to leave was Senator Matthew, a longtime friend of the family. He kissed her hand, whispered something about how Charles was “an irreplaceable man,” and then followed the rest to their waiting cars.

Genevieve remained.

Just her, the grave, and the stillness that comes when the world moves on and you’re left standing in a wreckage.

A soft rustle came behind her.

“Beautiful funeral service,” came a voice, low and elegant, female and British-tinged.

Genevieve turned.

It was the woman in black.

Up close, her features were sharp and timeless, like a statue carved perfectly well from shadows. She looked like she was in her mid-fifties. She was beautiful, probably more beautiful than women her age. She had removed the veil that Genevieve had seen her wearing earlier, but her eyes remained hidden behind dark glasses. She didn’t look sad or respectful—only amused.

“I’m sorry,” Genevieve said. “Were you a friend of Charles?”

Genevieve was familiar with all of Charles’s business partners and close friends, and this woman did not look familiar to her.

The woman smiled faintly. “Oh no, darling. I never liked Charles. I came for you.” The woman took a step forward with the smile still on her face.

Genevieve took a step back instinctively.

“Who are you?”

“A friend,” the woman said, offering her right pale, gloved hand for a handshake. “And a guide, if you’ll allow me.”

Genevieve didn’t take the hand.

The woman chuckled softly. “Smart. Good instincts. You’ll need them.”

“I’m not interested in cryptic games.” Genevieve turned to leave.

“But you are interested in the truth.” The woman with a smile on her face, like she knew that Genevieve was going to stop Genevieve from leaving.

That made Genevieve pause. She turned and waited for the woman to continue talking.

The woman stepped closer. “What if I told you Charles’s death was only the beginning?”

Genevieve narrowed her eyes as her stomach tightened. “The beginning of what?”

“The beginning of so many things that they have planned.”

The word hit her like a bell rung too close to her ear.

“What do you want from me?” Genevieve asked, her hands were almost shaking.

The woman reached into her coat and pulled out a sleek black envelope. She held it out towards Genevieve without explanation.

Genevieve hesitated for a few seconds before taking the envelope.

Inside the envelope was a card. It was pretty and elegant.

Three words stared up at her in silver writing: The Widow’s Club.

And beneath it was a name: Celeste Van Der Meer.

“Keep your veil on, darling,” Celeste said with a slight smile, as she turned to leave. “You have been chosen.”

And with that, she walked away, her heels silent against the grass.

Genevieve stood frozen, the card was still in her hand, and her veil fluttered against her skin as the wind blew towards her direction.

She didn’t know it yet, but her husband wasn’t the only person who was going to be buried.