My Dead Wife Is Framing Me
Language: en
The fever was a furnace, spiking past 104 degrees, and in that blurring, sweat-drenched state, I dreamt. My closest friend, Ashton, was there, clutching a bottle of pills, his face a landscape of absolute despair. He wept, repeating that he couldn't go on. I tried to tell myself it was just the fever talking—a horrifying nightmare brought on by the exhaustion of the last few days. Then the call came. Ashton was dead. A suspected suicide by overdose. The scene, described in the sterile language of the precinct report, was an echo of my fevered vision. Identical. That same night, the fever…