My Son And His Wife Came For Thanksgiving, But I Caught Them Swapping My Wine With Poison. I Faked My Own Death For 50 Minutes While My Hidden Cameras Recorded Their Celebration. What They Said About My Body Made My Blood Run Cold.
The Switch
I switched the glasses when Marcus went to answer his phone. My hand was steady. 30 years as an FBI forensic accountant teaches you to keep your hands steady when everything inside you is shaking. The burgundy wine caught the light from the fireplace.
Two identical glasses: one poisoned, one safe. Marcus didn’t know I’d been watching him for the past 3 days. He didn’t know I saw him slip something into my glass while Stephanie distracted me with questions about my medication schedule.
He thought I was just a lonely old man grateful for the company, grateful that my son and his wife had driven all the way to Denver to spend Thanksgiving with me. He was wrong.
3 days ago, I woke up in the middle of the night with that feeling. You know the one. The feeling that made me good at my job for three decades. The feeling that something doesn’t add up. The numbers don’t balance. Someone is lying.
I stood in the hallway outside my bedroom and listened to Marcus and Stephanie arguing in the guest room.
“We don’t have a choice anymore.”
Stephanie’s voice carried through the door. Sharp, desperate.
Victor said, “If we don’t pay by Monday he’s going to…”
“I know what he said.”
Marcus cut her off.
“But this is my father we’re talking about. Your father who’s sitting on $2 million while we’re about to lose everything.”
“He doesn’t need it, Marcus. He’s 65 years old. He had his life. We deserve ours.”
My son was silent for a long moment.
“Then how much time do we have?”
“3 days, maybe four if we’re lucky.”
I went back to my bedroom. I didn’t sleep. I lay there in the dark and thought about my wife Catherine, about how she made me promise before she died.
“Take care of Marcus,” she’d said. “He’s still our boy.”
Our boy. Our boy who came to visit exactly twice during her final six months. Our boy who asked about my retirement accounts before he asked how I was coping with her loss.
The Setup
I got up at dawn and made coffee. When Marcus came downstairs, I was making pancakes. His favorite. Catherine’s recipe.
“You’re up early, Dad.”
He smiled. That same smile he’d had since he was 8 years old.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said. “Excited to have you kids here for the holiday.”
He hugged me. I hugged him back and felt nothing but the weight of what I knew. That day, I told them I wanted to go over some financial documents, update my will, make sure everything was in order.
I watched Stephanie’s eyes light up. I watched Marcus try to hide his excitement.
“That’s great, Dad,” Marcus said. “Really responsible of you.”
I nodded.
“Getting old, you know. Need to make sure things are taken care of in case something happens.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
Stephanie touched my arm.
“You’re healthy as a horse.”
I smiled at her.
“You never know. Heart attacks run in my family. Could go any day.”
I saw the look that passed between them. Quick, electric, hungry.
That afternoon while they were out shopping, I installed cameras; small ones, the kind we used in fraud investigations. One in the kitchen, one in the living room, one in the hallway outside my bedroom. I set them to record to a cloud server with an encrypted password.
The Dinner
When they came back, I was dozing in my recliner, playing the part of the tired old man. That night I made dinner. Pot roast. Catherine’s pot roast. I set the table with the good china, poured wine. We sat down like a family.
Halfway through dinner, I excused myself to the bathroom. When I came back, my wine glass was in a slightly different position, maybe half an inch to the left. Most people wouldn’t notice. I noticed.
I picked up my glass and raised it.
“To family,” I said.
They raised their glasses. We drank. Except I didn’t drink. I pretended to sip and palmed a sleeping pill into my mouth instead. The same sleeping pills my doctor prescribed after Catherine died. The ones I never took because I didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to dream about her and then wake up and remember she was gone.
20 minutes later, I let myself sway in my chair, let my eyes droop.
“Dad,” Marcus stood up. “You okay?”
I mumbled something, let my head fall forward.
“Dad.”
Stephanie was on her feet now too. I slumped sideways. Marcus caught me.
“What’s happening?”
His voice was panicked. Good, let him panic. They laid me on the couch. I kept my breathing shallow, slow.
I heard Stephanie whisper.
“Is he… I don’t know. Feel his pulse.”
Cold fingers on my wrist.
“It’s there. It’s slow. Should we call 911?”
A pause. Too long of a pause.
“Let’s wait,” Stephanie said. “If we call an ambulance they’ll run tests. They might find…”
“Find what?”
Marcus’s voice was sharp. Another pause. Then Stephanie, quieter.
“Let’s just wait. See if he wakes up on his own.”
I lay there on the couch for 45 minutes listening to them pace, listening to them argue in whispers, listening to my son try to justify letting his father die.
“He wanted this,” Stephanie kept saying. “He said so himself. Said heart attacks run in the family. Said he could go any day. This is better than a nursing home, better than slowly losing his mind.”
“Stop.”
Marcus sounded sick.
“Just stop talking. We need to discuss what happens next. We need to figure out…”
“Stop,” I said.
At the 50-minute mark, I groaned, let my eyes flutter open. Marcus was at my side immediately.
“Dad. Oh thank God. You’re okay.”
I blinked at him. Let confusion cross my face.
“What happened?”
“You passed out right after dinner. Scared us half to death.”
