My Daughter Told Everyone I Have Dementia To Steal My Fortune. Then I Found The Drugs She Was Putting In My Coffee. What Should My Next Move Be?

The FBI Involved

The Saturday morning light felt different—colder, somehow, even though the sun was shining. I sat in my study with my phone in my hand, Jacob across from me, and the weight of what we’d discovered pressing down on both of us.

I dialed Martin Hughes at 8:30. He answered on the second ring.

“Philip. You?” he said, his voice cautious. “It’s early. What’s wrong?”

I told him everything. The evidence, the forgeries, the money, the plan. When I finished, there was a long silence on the other end.

“This is very serious,” Martin said finally, his tone grave. “You need to contact law enforcement immediately.”

“What charges are we talking about?” I asked.

“Elder abuse, fraud, criminal conspiracy, identity theft. Possibly more. This isn’t something you can handle on your own. You need the FBI and local police involved. Today.”

I thanked him and hung up. Jacob met my eyes.

“Greenwood Hills Police Station?” he asked.

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

The Greenwood Hills Police Station was a low brick building on the edge of town, surrounded by oak trees and a parking lot that smelled faintly of asphalt and coffee. Jacob and I walked in together, and the officer at the front desk directed us to Detective William Cooper’s office. Cooper was in his mid-50s, with gray at his temples and the kind of calm, weathered face that came from decades of hearing terrible things. He gestured for us to sit.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

I laid it all out. The fake psychiatric evaluation, the Lorazepam prescribed by a non-existent doctor, the missing bank statements, the jewelry, the deleted security footage. I showed him the documents, the medication bottle, the timeline Jacob and I had pieced together. Cooper listened without interrupting. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.

“Mr. Peton,” he said. “This falls under elder abuse statutes. It’s also financial exploitation. And given the scope of what you’re describing, I’m going to need to bring in the FBI.”

“And the FBI?” Jacob asked.

Cooper nodded. “They have a dedicated unit for elder justice cases. This isn’t just theft; it’s systematic. Give me a moment.”

He picked up his phone and made a call. 20 minutes later, a man in a dark suit walked into the office.

“Special Agent Spencer Torres,” he said, shaking my hand. His grip was firm, his eyes sharp. “FBI Elder Justice Initiative. Detective Cooper briefed me.”

“Mr. Peton, we take these cases very seriously.”

I handed him the evidence: the bank statements showing the unauthorized transfers, the fake evaluation, the bottle of Lorazepam, and the background report Jacob had compiled. Torres studied each document carefully. When he looked up, his expression was grim.

“We need to build a case,” he said. “That means gathering more evidence. Preferably in real time. Mr. Peton, would you be willing to help us collect recorded evidence?”

I stared at him. “You want me to record my own daughter?”

“If you’re willing,” Torres said evenly. “We need her to admit what she’s doing. A confession on tape would be invaluable.”

The words hit me like a punch. I’d known this was coming, but hearing it out loud made it real. Jacob leaned forward.

“What about Clara?” he asked. “She’s seven years old. She can’t be dragged into this.”

Torres met his gaze. “We’ll protect the child. Our priority is stopping the people doing harm. If Clara is safe with you, we’ll make sure she stays that way.”

“And Brady Thornton?” I asked.

Cooper spoke up. “We’re already looking into him. If what you’ve told us is accurate, he’s done this before. We’ll investigate him separately.”

Torres pulled out a folder and slid it across the desk. “Here’s what I’m proposing. You meet with your daughter again. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere we can monitor. You wear a wire. You get her talking. If she admits to any part of this—the forgeries, the medications, the money—we move in.”

I looked down at the folder. Inside were consent forms, legal disclaimers, instructions for wearing a recording device.

“You’d be helping us not just with your case,” Torres added. “But potentially with others. People like Brady Thornton prey on vulnerable individuals. If we can tie him to this, we can shut him down.”

Jacob looked at me. “Philip, you don’t have to do this.”

But I did. I knew I did.

“When?” I asked.

“As soon as you’re ready,” Torres said. “We’ll set it up, brief you on what to say, and monitor everything in real time. You won’t be alone.”

I nodded slowly. “Then let’s do it.”

Cooper stood and shook my hand. “You’re doing the right thing, Mr. Peton.”

Torres handed me a business card. “Call me when you’re ready to set up the meeting. We’ll take it from there.”

Jacob and I walked out of the police station into the bright morning sunlight. My hands were shaking.

“You okay?” Jacob asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I felt a strange mixture of relief and dread. Relief that I was no longer facing this alone, that people with authority and resources were finally involved. But also dread because I knew what came next would tear my family apart.

“I… I don’t know,” I said finally. “But we’re doing this for Clara. For Maryanne. For everyone Allison and Brady have hurt.”

Jacob nodded. “Then we’ll see it through.”

We climbed into his car, and as we drove back toward Greenwood Hills, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just crossed a line I could never uncross. The authorities were involved now. There was no going back. And somewhere out there, Allison had no idea what was coming.

The Trap is Set

The FBI moved quickly. By the following Monday afternoon, there were two technicians in my study installing surveillance equipment: a camera hidden in the bookshelf, microphones in the smoke detectors, and a small recording device I’d wear clipped to my belt whenever Allison came by.

“It’s voice activated,” Special Agent Torres explained, showing me the device. “You won’t have to do anything except talk. We’ll be monitoring remotely.”

Jacob stood near the window, arms crossed. “And if something goes wrong?”

“We’ll have a team nearby at all times,” Torres assured him. “Mr. Peton won’t be in danger.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, but I nodded anyway.

Day One: Monday Evening Allison arrived at 6:30, unannounced as usual. I heard her car in the driveway and felt the small recorder press against my ribs beneath my sweater. She let herself in with her key.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, breezing into the living room. Her tone was light, but her eyes were calculating. “I wanted to check in on you.”

“Uh, I’m fine,” I said carefully.

She sat down across from me, folding her hands in her lap. “Actually, I’ve been thinking. You’re getting older. Living alone in this big house… it’s not safe. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Are you?” She tilted her head as if genuinely concerned. “Dad, I think it might be time to consider an assisted living facility. Somewhere with staff. People who can keep an eye on you.”

The words felt rehearsed. I forced myself to stay calm. “Why would I need that?”

“Because you’re 70 years old,” she said, leaning forward. “And Dr. Thornton seems to think it would be in your best interest.”

There it was. Brady’s name spoken aloud.

“I see,” I said quietly.

Allison smiled. “Just think about it, okay?”

She left 10 minutes later. As soon as the door closed, Torres called.

“We got it,” he said. “She mentioned Thornton. That ties her to him directly.”

Day Three: Wednesday Afternoon FBI surveillance tracked Allison to a small cafe on the north side of town. Brady Thornton met her there at 2:00. I wasn’t present, but Torres called me afterward with the details.

“We couldn’t get audio,” he explained. “But we had a lip reader analyze the footage. Your daughter told Thornton, ‘The old man won’t cooperate.’ Thornton replied, ‘We need to push harder. Get him committed to a psych facility.'”

I felt sick.

“They’re escalating,” Torres continued. “That’s good for us. Means they’re desperate.”

Day Five: Friday Morning Torres had instructed me to fake a medical episode. Something believable but not dangerous. Something that would prompt Allison to act. So on Friday morning, I called her.

“Allison,” I said, letting my voice waver slightly. “I’m not feeling well.”

She arrived within 20 minutes. I was sitting in the living room when she walked in, clutching my chest theatrically.

“My dad,” she said sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Dizzy. My chest.”

She didn’t hesitate. She pulled out her phone and called 911. The paramedics arrived 12 minutes later. They checked my vitals and loaded me onto a stretcher. Allison rode with me to the hospital, her face tight with what might have been concern or frustration.

At the ER, the attending physician ran tests. “Mr. Peton,” he said. “Finally. You’re perfectly fine. All your vitals are normal.”

Allison’s expression hardened. “But he collapsed.”

“Uh, there’s no medical indication of that,” the doctor said gently.

Allison stared at me. For just a moment, I saw something cold flicker across her face. On the drive home, she didn’t say a word.

Day Seven: Sunday Evening Torres called me that night.

“We have enough surveillance footage,” he said. “The cafe meeting, the hospital incident, the recordings from your house. It all paints a clear picture. But we need one more thing.”

“What?”

“A direct threat or a demand. Something explicit that we can use in court. Right now, everything’s circumstantial. We need her to make a move.”

“How do I get her to do that?”

“Let’s invite her over,” Torres said. “Tell her you’re ready to discuss arrangements for your future. Make it sound like you’re giving in. She’ll think she’s won. That’s when people get careless.”

I took a breath. “And then?”

“Then we move in.”

I sent Allison a text message that night. “Can we talk? I’m ready to discuss my future.”

She replied within seconds. “Friday morning. 10:00 a.m. We’ll settle this once and for all.”

I stared at the screen. Friday. Five days away. Five days for her to plan whatever she was planning. Jacob came by late that evening. We sat in the study, neither of us saying much.

“You ready for this?” he asked finally.

“I have to be,” I said.

Jacob nodded. “Then we’ll be ready too.”

That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Allison as a child, the way she used to hold my hand, the way she’d laugh at my terrible jokes. I thought about Maryanne and how proud she’d been of our daughter. And I thought about Clara. Seven years old, who had no idea her mother had abandoned her. Who had no idea that in five days everything would change.

I knew what was coming. The wire, the confrontation, the confession. The moment when federal agents would walk through my door and arrest my own daughter. Friday would destroy my family, but it was the only way to save it. I told myself that over and over as I lay in the dark waiting for morning. Because if I didn’t believe it, I wasn’t sure I could go through with what came next.