I Was Excited To Tell My Daughter I Inherited $6 Million From My Sister, But I Heard Her Say..
Living a Lie
I spent that night in a hotel, using cash again, as I couldn’t go back to Linda’s house yet. I lay in the uncomfortable hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, and thought about everything I knew.
Linda wasn’t stupid, so she would be careful. The prescription she mentioned meant she had already seen a doctor and probably complained about me to lay the groundwork.
The psychiatrist was probably already lined up, maybe even paid off. I had heard the name Dr. Morrison before.
I pulled out my laptop and searched for Dr. Richard Morrison, a psychiatrist with a practice in Carlsbad. There it was, buried in a medical board database.
He had been investigated four years ago for falsifying patient evaluations in conservatorship cases. Although no charges were filed, the complaint was there.
Linda had found a corrupt psychiatrist. As a psychologist, I knew what medications could cause confusion in elderly patients.
Benzodiazepines were the most common: Ativan, Xanax, Valium. In high enough doses, they could make someone seem genuinely impaired.
Mix them with sleep medications or certain antihistamines, and the effect would be even more pronounced. I opened a new document and started typing.
Thirty-seven years of clinical experience had taught me how to document everything. I wrote down every detail I could remember from the conversation I had overheard, using exact quotes where possible.
I noted the date, time, and location while describing my emotional state and my observations. Then I created a plan.
If Linda was going to start tomorrow, I needed to be ready. I needed to catch her in the act, document everything, and build a case so airtight that even her lawyers couldn’t fight it.
At 6:00 a.m., I drove to a medical supply store and bought drug testing strips. They were the kind that could detect benzodiazepines, opioids, and other common substances in liquids.
I bought a small camera designed for home security and a voice-activated recorder. Everything went on a credit card I had opened years ago that Linda didn’t know about.
At 9:00 a.m., I called Linda from my regular phone, making my voice bright and cheerful.
“Good morning, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I didn’t come home last night. I had dinner with some old colleagues from Phoenix and it ran late, so I just got a hotel. I’ll be back this afternoon,”
I said.
“Oh, Mom, no worries at all,”
her voice was so warm and so loving.
How had I never heard the falseness in it?.
“We were a bit worried, but I figured you were out. How was your day yesterday?”
she asked.
“Wonderful. I have so much to tell you. See you soon, darling,”
I replied.
I hung up and felt sick, for she was so good at this. The concern in her voice had sounded genuine.
If I hadn’t heard what I had heard last night, I never would have suspected. I spent the day preparing and practiced looking confused and disoriented.
I read medical literature on medication-induced cognitive impairment so I would know what symptoms to fake if they succeeded in giving me drugs. I set up the camera in the guest room where I had been staying, hidden inside a decorative clock on the dresser.
I tested the voice recorder, and everything worked. At 4:00 p.m., I drove back to Linda’s house.
I parked in the driveway and took a deep breath. I was about to walk back into a place where two people I loved were planning to destroy me.
Every instinct screamed at me to run, but I didn’t get to where I was in my career by running from difficult situations. Linda opened the door with a huge smile and wrapped me in a hug.
“Mom! We missed you! How was Phoenix?”
she asked.
“Actually, I wasn’t in Phoenix, dear. I was here in San Diego. Just needed some ‘me time’,”
I said.
A flicker of something crossed her face—confusion. She thought she had been tracking my location, but the burner phone was in Phoenix with Ryan, whom I had overnight shipped it to.
On my monitored phone, I had left it turned off until an hour ago.
“Oh? Well, that’s nice. Come in, come in. Sophia’s making dinner—your favorite, chicken piccata,”
Linda said.
The kitchen smelled amazing. Sophia looked up from the stove with a bright smile.
“Grandma! Perfect timing!”
she said.
I hugged her, feeling my heart break a little more. This was my granddaughter, whom I had rocked to sleep as a baby and who had called me her best friend.
She was in on this too.
“Can I help with anything?”
I asked.
“No, no. You sit. You’ve had a long day,”
Sophia answered.
“Mom, why don’t you make Grandma her specialty?”
Sophia suggested.
And there it was: the tea. I watched as Linda moved to the cabinet and pulled out my favorite mug.
I watched as she made chamomile tea just the way I liked it. And I watched as she turned her back for just a moment, her hand dipping into her pocket.
“Here you go, Mom. Drink up. You look tired,”
Linda said.
The Poisoned Cup
I took the mug, raised it to my lips, and pretended to sip. The liquid touched my lips, but I didn’t swallow.
I held it in my mouth for a moment, then pretended to swallow. Years of teaching had made me good at talking while drinking.
I kept the conversation flowing and kept the mug raised periodically to keep up the pretense. When no one was looking, I poured half the tea into a water bottle I had brought with me.
I would test it later. Dinner was lovely, and they were both so attentive and caring.
Linda kept asking if I was feeling okay while Sophia kept refilling my water glass. They were waiting for the drugs to take effect.
“You know, I am feeling a bit tired,”
I said finally.
“I think I’ll turn in early,”
I added.
“Of course, Mom,”
Linda squeezed my hand.
“Sleep well,”
she said.
I went to my room and locked the door. I pulled out the drug testing strip and tested the tea I had saved.
It turned bright blue immediately. It was benzodiazepines, probably a heavy dose based on the intensity of the color.
I sat on the bed and cried for the first time since I had overheard their conversation. It was not because I was scared, but because it was real.
My daughter had actually drugged me. This wasn’t a nightmare I could wake up from, but I couldn’t fall apart now.
I pulled out my burner phone and texted Ryan.
“Evidence collected. Tea tested positive for benzo. Camera and audio recorder running. What’s next?”
I wrote.
His response was immediate:
“Don’t drink anything they give you tomorrow. Document everything. I’m flying down this weekend. We’re going to nail them.”
The next two weeks were the hardest of my life. Every day, Linda and Sophia tried to drug me with coffee, tea, or juice.
Once, I caught Sophia trying to crush a pill into my yogurt. I documented everything.
The camera in my room caught Linda entering when she thought I was asleep to check my medicine cabinet and plant prescription bottles. I pretended to be increasingly confused.
I’d forget names of people I’d known for years and ask what day it was. I’d even leave the stove on accidentally.
It killed me to act this way, but I needed them to think their plan was working. Linda scheduled an appointment with Dr. Morrison for me, telling me it was just a routine checkup.
I went along with it, playing my part perfectly. Dr. Morrison was exactly what I expected: slick and overly friendly.
He asked questions designed to make me seem impaired.
“What year is it, Barbara? Who’s the president? Can you count backward from 100 by 7s?”
he asked.
I answered slowly and hesitantly, getting just enough wrong to seem problematic but not obviously faked. Years of administering cognitive tests meant I knew exactly how real impairment presented.
“Mrs. Mitchell,”
he said finally, his voice full of fake concern.
“I’m a bit worried about what I’m seeing here. I’d like to recommend that your daughter consider legal arrangements to help you manage your affairs,”
he suggested.
“What do you mean?”
I asked, letting my voice quaver.
“Just some simple paperwork to make sure you’re protected,”
he replied.
I nodded, playing the confused, grateful mother.
“If you think it’s best, doctor,”
I said.
