More than two years ago now, John McAfee disappeared behind the walls of a prison in Barcelona. But the real tragedy continues for the one who loved him until the end. Janice McAfee, his widow, remains trapped in another kind of suffering: total uncertainty about what really happened.

The woman who chose to stay by his side despite everything now lives in secrecy in Spain, surviving by taking on small jobs here and there. Her savings? Exhausted. Her money? Gone. She only has the kindness of friends to prevent her from ending up on the street. Even after Catalan authorities declared in September that John had committed suicide, Janice remains haunted by questions every day.

The contrast is striking when you think about what he was once. John McAfee left his antivirus company in 1994 with more than 100 million dollars in his pocket. But at the time of his death, his official fortune had fallen to just 4 million. In 2019, he was shouting from the rooftops that he had nothing, unable to pay a $25 million judgment. Then came tax evasion issues, accusations that he and his team had earned 11 million by promoting cryptocurrencies. From his cell, he claimed on Twitter that he had no hidden crypto. Nothing. Zero.

But for Janice McAfee, money is not the issue. What eats at her is the lack of answers. She just wants an independent autopsy, just to know. Authorities refuse to disclose the results of the official autopsy. She has tried, begged, but nothing. A private autopsy would cost 30,000 euros, which she does not have. She just wants to see his body with her own eyes, to confirm that all of this is real.

What really troubles her is how everything unfolded. She talks about details that don’t add up: the prison report saying he still had a pulse when he was found, that he was still breathing, even faintly. She wonders why the doctors didn’t remove the ligature before attempting resuscitation. She took nursing assistant training. She knows how it works. Airway first. Obstruction last. But that’s not what happened, according to her.

Janice doesn’t want to accuse. She doesn’t want to play the victim. She clearly says: John is the victim here. She just wants the truth. She talks about daily conversations they had when he was imprisoned near Barcelona. How could he have hung up without her knowing? She doesn’t know if it was a rope, a shoelace, nothing. Just questions that keep circling.

There’s a theory whispered: a few hours before his death, an extradition order to the United States had been signed. The prospect of an American prison looked bleak. U.S. authorities don’t like to be challenged. Would a man as proud as John McAfee really have accepted without fighting? Janice refuses to speculate too much. They never talked about it, she says. He just told her he wanted to be cremated because he knew there were people who wanted to kill him.

John’s body is still at the morgue of the prison. Two years. Janice wants to honor his last wish: cremation. That’s all she asks now. Not justice, she knows it no longer exists. Not revenge. Just an independent autopsy to find peace, and then be able to say goodbye properly. She hopes people will remember him rightly, not as a fugitive sensationalized by Netflix documentaries, but as the man he truly was.

Janice McAfee needs to move forward. She deserves to move forward. But first, she needs to know.