When Stephen ‘tWitch’ Boss’ Widow Allison Holker Was Told He Died, ‘I Raced Down the Hallway, Shrieking’ (Exclusive)

Allison Holker lived every wife’s worst nightmare in December 2022 when she learned her husband had been found dead.

After spending the day frantically trying to locate Stephen “tWitch” Boss, who had been missing for more than 24 hours, the dancer, 36, convinced herself he had secretly checked into a treatment center to address his marijuana use.

Following his death by suicide at 40 years old, Holker — who became a single mom to daughters Weslie, 16, and Zaia, 5, and son Maddox, 8 — discovered he had been battling “scary” demons, including hidden drug addiction and unresolved childhood trauma.

Below, in an exclusive excerpt from her upcoming memoir, This Far: My Story of Love, Loss, and Embracing the Light (out Feb. 4), Holker details the devastating moment police arrived at her door to inform her Boss had died.

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December 13, 2022, dawned a chilly 44 degrees in greater Los Angeles, the lowest temperature that would be recorded in the area all month. But the rawness I felt had nothing to do with the weather. I got the kids off to school and then scoured the house. What was I looking for? I had no idea, but I figured I’d know it if I saw it.

There was one thing of note in Stephen’s nightstand: a letter dated two weeks earlier in which he made a commitment to wean himself off weed. Stephen had printed his words, originally written in the notes app on his phone, and signed his name to them.

As soon as I was able, I filed a formal missing person report. I implored the officer on duty to help me find my husband. “He has to be hurt somewhere,” I said. That was the most likely scenario to me.

The police had other theories. They asked if we had had a fight. If there was abuse in the home. If he had a history of adultery. Every question was like a body blow. My trust in the cops began to waver. I kept thinking about what Stephen had said about Black men and law enforcement. It hit me: I’m not just missing my husband. I’m missing a Black man. Will they put as much effort into finding him?

I was convinced that he had to be hurt or lost somewhere. I tried to convey to the police what they didn’t understand: “Stephen’s the most loyal, loving husband and father.” We had just returned from a lovely anniversary weekend, for God’s sake. “We’re happy,” I told them — as a little voice in my head whispered, Right?

Two officers followed me home to look around. They accessed our security camera footage, which showed Stephen slipping into an Uber car around the time he was supposed to meet me at the gym. He had that omnipresent black backpack slung over his shoulder.

The officers asked me if Stephen owned any guns. I was aware that he had bought one in 2020 during the pandemic. He was scared because the city was experiencing a severe spike in riots and robberies. Several houses in our neighborhood had already been hit. But I had no idea where he kept the gun or if he even knew how to operate it. I vaguely recalled that he might have made one trip to the shooting range. Rooting around, the cops found an unlocked gun case, the gun missing. The likely ramifications of its absence went completely over my head. I had no explanation for why the gun was gone. The cops kept any suspicions to themselves.

At a friend’s suggestion, I started calling recovery centers within the radius created by the police. Given his struggles with smoking and drinking, I thought it was plausible that he might have checked himself into rehab. To my surprise, there were a handful of centers near our home.

At the first few I contacted, I was told, “He’s an adult. So even if he’s in here, we aren’t at liberty to tell you without his permission.” Okay, okay, okay.

The last recovery center I called was six minutes from our home. The woman who answered delivered the same spiel as the others. I pleaded with her. I said I understood privacy laws, and I promised not to report her if he was there and she told me. I just needed to know if he was safe. She calmly replied, “Well, I’m not allowed to tell you if he is here, but if he was, would you want to leave him a message?”

My heart nearly exploded in my chest. I took her words as a non-confirmation confirmation. “Yes!” I said. “Please tell him I love him so much. And I’m so proud of him for making this choice. Our family will stand behind him through anything, and he can stay there as long as he needs. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, it’s okay. I’ll never judge him, and I’ll be here for him whenever he’s ready to resume contact.”

I began calling friends and family to say I had found Stephen, that he was safe. I ran outside to the front yard to catch the cops, who were standing near their parked squad car. I said, “Hey, I think I found him, but they can’t legally confirm with me. Can you please go ask from your side?” I returned to the house, awash in relief.

The letter in his nightstand, his panic the night before — it all made sense now. Stephen had gone to rehab. He was going through something and now he was getting help. I was so caught up in my thoughts, I barely registered the whomp, whomp, whomp of helicopters flying overhead and the wail of police sirens. Something was happening near our house, but then again, we live in Los Angeles, the land of high-speed car chases. Something always seems to be happening.

About 20 minutes later, the two cops out in front were joined by a third officer. He was older, very sweet. He came to the door, trailed by the others. The new arrival looked at me with such compassion in his eyes. He asked me to sit down, and my heart sank. They don’t ask you to sit unless what they’re about to tell you is very, very bad.

I couldn’t bring myself to sit down. If I didn’t sit, then maybe whatever he was about to tell me wouldn’t be real.

A dark energy settled over the room as I stood frozen in place. “Your husband has been found,” he said. “He’s not in rehab.” He sat down at the kitchen table. I stayed where I was. “Your husband was found in a hotel. He was found by the maid. He shot himself.”

No. No. No. No.

I told them they had found a Black man, but it didn’t mean they had found my man. Stephen would never do what this officer was suggesting.

Ever-so-gently, the officer explained Stephen had left a letter and his ID. He had been identified by his tattoos, including that one below his elbow: I am . . . I have . . . I deserve . . .

My stomach clenched. He had spent eight painful hours getting inked during a magical trip we took to New Zealand. It was like a DNA strand with tribal markings meant to honor the country’s indigenous Maori people, and the loves of his life: me and Weslie and music. It was his version of a charm bracelet, and he had always intended to add on to it. He spoke often of a return trip to New Zealand and a visit to the same artist to mark Maddox and Zaia’s presence on the strand. A trip that would now never happen. His beautiful tattoo reduced to a macabre identifying mark.

I raced down the hallway, shrieking. The sound that escaped from my throat was feral. I’d never heard the likes of it before. I collapsed onto the floor in a fetal position, where I would stay for several minutes, keening as one of our assistants held me tight.

Nothing made any sense. I was so scared. I felt so alone even as I was in another’s embrace. The world went black. The walls closed in on me until I thought I was going to suffocate. Until that moment, I had never understood the phrase “It’s like the world stopped.” That’s exactly how it felt: as if time froze. I literally couldn’t believe that Stephen was dead.

Taken from This Far, by Allison Holker. Copyright © 2025 by Allison Holker Boss. Used by permission of Harper Select, an imprint of HarperCollins Focus, LLC. https://www.harpercollinsfocus.com/

This Far: My Story of Love, Loss, and Embracing the Light by Allison Holker comes out on Feb. 4 from Harper Select and is available for preorder now, wherever books are sold.