Mrs. Jones visited a fortune teller of some local repute. In a dark and hazy room, peering into a crystal ball, the mystic delivered grave news.

"There's no easy way to say this, Mrs. Jones, so I'll just be blunt: Prepare yourself to be a widow. Your husband will die a violent and horrible death this year."

Visibly shaken, Mrs. Jones stared at the woman's lined face, then at the single flickering candle, then down at her hands. She took a few deep breaths to compose herself. She simply had to know. She met the fortune teller's gaze, steadied her voice, and asked her question.

"Will I get away with it?"