Dust to Dust

Five years after my death, my doctor husband, Sauron, demanded once again that I take the fall for a medical malpractice suit involving his first love. He burst into my old apartment, clutching a forged agreement, only to find a house thick with dust. In a panic, he grabbed the corner store owner downstairs, questioning my whereabouts. The owner, however, told him: “Chloe Finch? She died five years ago. I heard the family from that malpractice suit, driven by grief, ambushed her in an alley one night and stabbed her over a dozen times.” My husband refused to believe it, convinced the owner had been paid to lie for me. He raised an eyebrow, a cold sneer on his face. “So, just because I suspended her for two years, she’s throwing a tantrum now?!” “Tell her, if she doesn’t show up in three days, I’m stopping her sister’s cancer treatment payments!”