At 35, I became a widower. Elizabeth’s sudden car accident death left me reeling. Thousands of miles away, I struggled to breathe at the thought. Our five-year marriage, vanished in an instant. My daughters, Sophie and Emma, four and five, kept asking, “Where’s Mommy?”
Their grandmother’s tears echoed over the phone. I rushed home, but arrived too late for the funeral. The cemetery gates welcomed me with an unsettling calm. An ancient woman stood nearby, piercing eyes locked onto mine.
“Excuse me,” she called softly. “I know your fate.” Her low, serious tone sent shivers.
She offered to reveal my future for twenty dollars. Numb, I handed over the crumpled bill. “Elizabeth won’t rest until justice is served,” she whispered.
Chilled, I demanded explanations. “Your wife’s death was no accident.” Her words seared into my mind.
That night, I sifted through Elizabeth’s belongings. Car rental receipts puzzled me. We had two cars; why rent one?
The fortuneteller’s words echoed: “There’s more to her death than you know.” I called Elizabeth’s friend Sarah. She revealed Elizabeth’s surprise beach trip plan, but doubts lingered.
The rental company confirmed the car’s return, with minimal mileage. Karen, Elizabeth’s sister, had returned it. Why?
Police investigation uncovered tampered brakes and a life insurance policy, forged by Karen. Betrayal gripped me.
Karen’s arrest brought justice, but not Elizabeth. In court, she confessed to murder for insurance money. Sentence passed, I felt numb closure. Elizabeth’s death now made sense.
Visiting her grave, a butterfly landed on the headstone. I whispered, “Rest now.” The fortuneteller’s words echoed: “Justice will be served.” Her twenty-dollar revelation changed everything.
The truth, painful as it was, brought closure. Elizabeth’s memory would live on through our daughters. Justice had been served.
