My Sister Drugged Our Healthy Father To Steal Our $5 Million Vineyard. I Caught Her On Tape And Called The Cops Three Days Before Christmas. Am I The Jerk For Sending My Own Sister To Prison?

Memory care? My father didn’t have memory problems.

“What about Robert?” Catherine asked.

“My brother will fight this.” She added.

The man shrugged.

“You have power of attorney. The medical documentation is clear. Your father has been diagnosed with moderate dementia. He’s not competent to make financial decisions anymore. Your brother can fight it, but he’ll lose, especially once we have the signed contracts.” The man replied.

I felt something cold slide down my spine.

“When do we meet with the buyer?” Catherine asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon at 2:00. They’re very motivated. This property has been on their acquisition list for years. We’ll have the purchase agreement signed by Christmas Eve. Your father will be settled into Sunrise by New Year’s.” The man replied.

Catherine smiled. She actually smiled.

“And my commission for helping facilitate this?” She asked.

“10% of the sale price. $500,000. Plus, you’ll inherit the remainder after care expenses—probably another 2 million within 5 to 7 years, given actuarial tables.” The man answered.

They were selling my father’s vineyard, planning to lock him in a memory care facility, and betting on him dying within seven years. I pulled out my phone, made sure it was still recording, and pushed the door open.

“Someone want to explain what I just heard?” I asked.

Catherine’s head snapped up. The color drained from her face.

“Robert! What are you doing here?” She asked.

“I asked you a question.” I said as I stepped into the room.

“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.

The man stood smoothly, extending his hand.

“Robert Chen? I’m Gerald Whitmore, a financial adviser. Your sister and I are helping arrange appropriate care for your father.” The man said.

I ignored his hand.

“Where is my father?” I asked.

“He’s resting.” Catherine said quickly.

“He’s been very tired lately. Confused, Robert. We need to talk about this. Dad’s not doing well.” She added.

“He was fine two months ago.” I replied.

“No, he wasn’t.” Catherine said.

She stood up, coming around the desk. Her voice took on that condescending tone I remembered from childhood.

“You just don’t want to see it. Dad’s been having memory problems for over a year. He’s forgotten conversations. He’s gotten lost driving to town. Last month, he left the stove on all night. He could have burned the whole place down.” She claimed.

“That’s bullshit.” I stated.

“It’s documented.” Gerald said smoothly.

“I have medical records from Dr. Harrison. Three separate evaluations. Clear cognitive decline. Your sister has been managing this crisis quietly, trying not to alarm you, but the situation has reached a point where professional care is necessary.” He added.

“Dr. Harrison?” I asked.

“Dad’s doctor is Dr. Patel. Has been for 15 years.” I added.

Catherine blinked, just for a second.

“He switched doctors.” She said.

“Dr. Patel retired.” She claimed.

“Really? When?” I asked.

“Last spring.” She replied.

I pulled out my phone, opened my messages, and found the text from Dad from three weeks ago. I read it out loud.

“Just left Dr. Patel’s office. Clean bill of health. Blood pressure perfect. He says I’ll outlive all of you. See you at Christmas.” I read.

There was silence.

“Want to explain that?” I asked.

Gerald recovered first.

“Memory patients often appear lucid in short interactions. The decline is evident over time with people who see them regularly.” He said.

“And you see him regularly?” I asked.

“Because I’ve never heard Dad mention you. Not once.” I noted.

“I’ve been consulting with Catherine for several months.” Gerald said.

“Behind my back?” I asked.

“Robert!” Catherine said, her voice hardening.

“This isn’t about you. This is about what’s best for Dad. He needs professional care, and frankly, this vineyard is too much for him. It’s time to sell. Use the money to make sure he’s comfortable.” She argued.

“Comfortable? Or to make sure you get your $500,000 commission?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You were recording every word? That’s illegal.” She said.

“California is a one-party consent state.” I said.

“I can record any conversation I’m part of, and I’m part of this conversation now.” I told her.

Gerald held up his hands.