After my wife Elizabeth’s tragic car accident, a fortuneteller at her funeral told me, “Her death was no accident.” What I uncovered next revealed a terrifying secret.
I never imagined becoming a widower at 35. Elizabeth was my anchor, the mother of our two little girls. Suddenly, she was gone, and I felt lost in the shock of her absence. The funeral was unbearable; our daughters, Sophie and Emma, only four and five years old, kept asking, “Where’s Mommy?” I had no idea how to answer.
As I walked to my car in a daze, I noticed an old woman near the cemetery gates. Her face was etched with deep lines, her sharp eyes piercing through me.
“Excuse me,” she called softly.
I hesitated. “What?”
“Cross my palm with silver, and I’ll reveal the joy and sorrow that lie ahead,” she said, holding out her hand.
Bewildered, I started to walk away, but her next words stopped me cold. “Elizabeth won’t rest until justice is served.”
“What did you say?” I asked, turning back.
“Twenty dollars,” she said, beckoning with her bony fingers. In my grief-stricken state, I handed her the crumpled bill.
“Your wife’s death was no accident,” she whispered, sending a chill down my spine.
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s more to her death than you know. Tomorrow, the truth will begin to reveal itself.”
I felt my mouth go dry. “What truth?”
She smiled slowly. “By this time tomorrow, you’ll see.” Then she vanished into the mist, leaving me torn between disbelief and foreboding.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The fortuneteller’s words haunted me. Unable to rest, I sifted through Elizabeth’s belongings and found receipts from a car rental service. We had two cars—why would she need a rental?
The next morning, I called Elizabeth’s best friend, Sarah, who worked at the garage where our cars were serviced. “Did Elizabeth mention anything about renting a car?”
“Yes, she rented one when both your cars were in the shop,” Sarah replied. “It was for a surprise trip to the beach.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
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