At My Brother’s Funeral, His Lawyer Pulled Me Aside: “He Left You This. Don’t Let Her See It”…

Into the Lion’s Den

Detective Chen set up surveillance officers in an unmarked van across the street. A wire on me. A plan to rush in if anything went wrong. I drove to Marcus’ house the next evening with my heart pounding. I hadn’t seen my son in six months. I had no idea what state he’d be in.

Christine answered the door in an apron, playing the role of devoted wife. “Richard, come in. Marcus is in the living room.”

I walked in. Marcus was sitting on the couch, and my heart broke. He’d lost weight. His eyes were dull, distant. He looked like a shadow of himself.

“Dad,” he said. But his voice was flat, medicated.

I sat beside him. “Son, how are you?”

“I’m okay. Better. Christine takes good care of me.”

Christine smiled from the doorway. “Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes. Marcus, honey, why don’t you show your father your new workshop in the garage? I just finished setting it up for you.”

Marcus stood up slowly, mechanically. I followed him through the kitchen, past where Christine was stirring something in a pot, and out to the garage.

The Turn

The garage was empty except for a workbench and some tools. Marcus turned to me, and suddenly his eyes weren’t dull anymore. They were sharp, clear, alert.

“Dad,” he whispered. “I’ve been faking it. I’ve been pretending to take the pills, hiding them. I know what she’s doing.”

I nearly collapsed with relief. “Marcus, thank God,” I thought. “I know what you thought. I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you.”

“She watches everything. Checks my phone, my emails, my car’s GPS. I’ve been playing along, acting drugged, waiting for the right moment.”

He grabbed my arm. “Dad, she’s going to poison you tonight. The pot roast. I heard her on the phone with David. They think you’re dying anyway, so they’re going to speed it up.”

“I know. The police are outside. We have a plan.”

“No,” Marcus’s voice was urgent. “You don’t understand. David is a cop. He’s been feeding her information from inside. That’s how she stayed ahead of everything. Your trap? They know about it. They’re turning it around on you.”

The world tilted. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ve been recording everything on my phone. I’ve got hundreds of hours. I’ve been building a case. But Dad, we need to get you out of here now. If you eat that dinner, the surveillance team won’t reach you in time. David will make sure of that.”

I heard Christine’s voice from inside. “Boys, dinner’s ready.”

Marcus and I looked at each other. “What do we do?” I whispered.

Marcus reached into the toolbox and pulled out his phone. “We stop playing her game. We call real police. Not Toronto Division. I’ve been in contact with an RCMP officer. Someone David doesn’t know. She’s on her way.”

The Final Course

Christine appeared in the garage doorway. She was holding two plates of pot roast, smiling, but her eyes weren’t smiling. She was looking at Marcus—really looking at him—and I saw the moment she realized he wasn’t drugged. He’d been faking.

Her smile vanished. “You little bastard,” she said softly. “You’ve been awake this whole time.”

Marcus raised his phone. “It’s over, Christine. Or should I call you Allison? I know everything. I’ve recorded everything. And the RCMP is already listening.”

He tapped the phone screen. A voice came through—female, official. “Mrs. Pearson, this is Corporal Linda Zhao, RCMP. We have units surrounding your house. Please put down the plates and place your hands where we can see them.”

Christine looked at the plates in her hands. At us. At the door behind her. She made her decision in a split second. She threw the plates at us and ran.

Marcus and I ducked. The pot roast hit the floor, the garage wall, splattering everywhere. I noticed the meat was steaming, and where it hit my shoe, it burned. Not just hot—caustic. She’d put something in it that would dissolve tissue, make it look like my cancer had caused internal bleeding.

We heard her car start, tires squealing. But she didn’t get far. The RCMP had blocked the street.

We heard the crash, then shouting, then silence. Marcus and I walked out of the garage. Christine was being pulled from her car, handcuffed, screaming obscenities.

David Wickham was being arrested at the same time, three streets over. The Toronto police surveillance team was being detained for questioning.

It was over.

Marcus turned to me, and for the first time in six months, I saw my son. Really saw him. He hugged me, and we both started crying.

Rebuilding Pearson and Pearson

That was eight months ago. Christine—or Allison Draper—is awaiting trial for two counts of murder, three counts of attempted murder, fraud, and about a dozen other charges.

David Wickham turned witness in exchange for a lighter sentence. He confirmed everything: Tommy’s murder, the plan to kill me, the drugging of Marcus.

They exhumed Tommy’s body. The second autopsy confirmed poisoning. Digitalis in doses that would cause cardiac arrest but metabolize quickly. She’d done it before with Robert Chen. She knew exactly how.

Marcus is recovering. He’s in therapy, dealing with the trauma of being married to a serial killer. We have Sunday dinners again, just the two of us. Sometimes Martin Breeslin joins us.

Marcus is rebuilding his life. He’s dating again—slowly. He says he’ll never trust easily again, but he’s learning.

The business is doing well. We renamed it Pearson and Pearson in Tommy’s memory.

And me? I’m here. 64 years old. Still alive despite Christine’s best efforts.

Sometimes I think about what would have happened if Tommy hadn’t been suspicious. If he hadn’t left me that envelope. If Marcus hadn’t been smart enough to fake being drugged. Christine would have succeeded. She would have killed us all and taken everything.

But she didn’t. Because my brother was careful. Because my son was brave. Because we trusted each other more than we trusted her lies.

I visit Tommy’s memorial at Georgian Bay every few weeks. I sit on the dock where we used to fish, and I talk to him. Tell him everything. Thank him for saving my life.

And I make a promise every time: I will never be silent when something feels wrong. I will never ignore my instincts. I will never let anyone isolate the people I love.

Tommy taught me that. Even in death, he’s still teaching me. My brother, my best friend. The man who saved us all by paying attention when everyone else looked away. I won’t waste the life he saved.

None of us will.