My Son Drank Poison To Save My Life And Trap His Evil Wife. He Knew It Was Lethal But Did It To Get Evidence. Now She’s Facing 8 Years And I’m Left With The Heartbreaking Truth.

That drink wasn’t meant for Matthew; it was meant for me. The fluorescent lights in the emergency room waiting area made my eyes ache, or maybe it was the fear. Dr. Melissa Stone stepped through the swinging doors with a serious expression.

She was maybe 40 with tired eyes and the kind of calm that came from years of delivering bad news. She scanned the room, found me standing by the window, and walked over. “mr sullivan” I straightened. “how is he”

“your son is stable we’ve got him on IV fluids vitamin K and we’re monitoring his blood work closely” She gestured to the plastic chairs. “can we sit”

We sat though I didn’t want to because my legs were shaking. “mr sullivan your son was exposed to a toxic dose of anti-coagulant medication Warerin combined with alcohol it caused uncontrolled bleeding we caught it in time but it was close” The words hit me like a freight train.

“warfaren” “yes do you know if Matthew takes any blood thinners” “no he doesn’t” I heard my voice crack.

“i’m the one who takes Warfaren” “for my heart condition i’ve been on it for 6 years” Dr. Stone’s brow furrowed.

“is it possible he accidentally took your medication mixed up a pill bottle” “no” I shook my head.

“matthew doesn’t live with me he has his own place across town he wouldn’t have access to my medicine cabinet” She made a note on her tablet. “then we need to figure out how this happened warfaren doesn’t just appear in someone’s system by accident”

Before I could respond the automatic doors slid open and Oilia rushed in with Grace’s hand in hers. Her eyes were red, her hair disheveled, and her voice breathless. “doctor is he okay is Matthew okay”

Dr. Stone stood. “he’s stable we’re treating him for” “Could it be something from the party” Oilia interrupted while looking between us.

“food poisoning a bad batch of shrimp someone made a mistake with the catering” “ma this isn’t food poisoning” Dr. Stone said gently but firmly.

“this is pharmaceutical your husband ingested a significant amount of warerin” Oilia blinked. “warfaren but how could it be could someone have given him the wrong medication by mistake could it be contamination could”

“Oilia” I said quietly. “let the doctor finish”

She stopped with her mouth still half-open and her eyes darting between us. Something about the way she was asking her questions struck me as off. She wasn’t asking “Is he okay?” or “When can I see him?”

She was asking “What do they know?” Dr. Stone glanced at her watch. “we’re moving Matthew to the ICU for observation his vitals are improving but we need to monitor him for the next 24 hours you’ll be able to see him briefly once he’s settled”

“thank you,” I said. My voice sounded far away.

Dr. Stone left and Grace curled up in a chair clutching a stuffed bear someone had grabbed from the house. Oilia sat across from me with her phone in hand, scrolling and tapping, not looking at me. The waiting room was nearly empty while a janitor mopped the far corner and a vending machine hummed.

The clock on the wall read 2:47 a.m. I couldn’t sleep and couldn’t stop replaying the night in my head. I remembered Oilia handing me the glass and the way she watched me.

I remembered the way her face fell when I set it down. I thought of Matthew behind me picking up a glass, but which one? The blood, the panic, the ambulance, and now here: Warfarin in his system.

My Warfarin. The thought formed slowly like ice spreading across glass. That drink was meant for me.

I looked up and saw Oilia had moved to the hallway with her phone pressed to her ear. Through the glass partition I could see her pacing and gesturing sharply with her face tight with anger. She wasn’t speaking loudly enough for me to hear the words but her body language said everything.

This wasn’t the face of a worried wife. This was the face of someone whose plan had gone wrong. I stood and walked closer, staying just out of sight around the corner.

Her voice drifted through the gap in the door. “i don’t care what you think it wasn’t supposed to no listen to me” She stopped mid-sentence, turned, and saw me through the glass.

Neither of us moved for a moment as our eyes met. Then she ended the call, slipped the phone into her pocket, and walked back into the waiting room with a bright shaky smile. “that was my sister,” she said.

“just checking in she’s so worried” I nodded and said nothing. The sky outside the windows started to lighten.

Dawn came slow in June but it came. Dr. Stone returned just after 5:00 a.m. “matthew’s stable the bleeding has stopped you can see him now just for a few minutes”

I followed her through the maze of hallways to the ICU. Matthew lay in a narrow bed, pale as the sheets, with tubes running from his arms and monitors beeping softly. His chest rose and fell; he was alive.

I sat down beside him and took his hand; it was cold. “i don’t know what happened last night son,” I whispered. “but I’m going to find out.”

The Count of Twenty-Two Pills

He didn’t answer as the machines beeped and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. When I returned to the waiting room Oilia was asleep on the chairs across the hall with her phone clutched in her hand. She looked peaceful, the picture of a worried wife.

But I had seen that phone call. I had seen the look in her eyes before the tears came. For the first time in 9 years I wondered who my son had really married.

I came home around noon the next day and it looked like a crime scene that hadn’t been investigated yet. Plastic cups littered the coffee table and half-eaten plates of food sat abandoned on the kitchen counter. A strand of decorative lights hung crooked over the mantle like someone had grabbed it in a hurry.

The house still smelled faintly of whiskey and barbecue smoke, but I didn’t see it the way I had 24 hours ago. Now everything looked different. I moved through the living room slowly, cataloging details the way I used to catalog blueprints, measuring, noting, and filing away.

I noted the side table where I’d set my drink and the spot where Matthew had collapsed. I saw the doorway where Oilia had stood with tears streaming and hands pressed to her mouth. I walked into the kitchen where the whiskey bottle sat on the counter exactly where she’d left it.

I picked it up carefully and turned it in the light. It had an expensive label, Woodford Reserve, and was still 2/3 full. I found a Ziploc bag in the drawer, slipped the bottle inside, and sealed it.

Then I pulled a Sharpie from the junk drawer and wrote on the bag in block letters: June 8th 2024 housewarming party whiskey Oilia. It was an architect’s habit to label everything and document everything. I set the bag on the counter and headed to the bathroom.

The medicine cabinet was exactly as I’d left it: organized, alphabetical, each prescription bottle lined up in a row. I’d been doing it that way since Eleanor died because it kept me sane. I pulled out the Warfaren bottle with its orange cap and white label.