My Son Is Trying To Poison Me For My $18m Inheritance. He Forgot One Detail: I’m A Retired Cardiac Surgeon. The Fbi Is Waiting In The Next Room.

The Diagnosis

They left the room without another word, but not before I saw the look Rachel shot me. It was cold, calculating, dangerous. A look that made my blood pressure spike. That was five days ago.

Four days ago, I started feeling sick. Really sick. Nausea that wouldn’t quit, dizziness, confusion. I thought it was stress from the confrontation, but then the visual disturbances started: yellow halos around every light source, colors seeming too bright, too vibrant.

And my heart, my traitorous heart, felt wrong. Not the Afib wrong—different wrong. I’m a cardiac surgeon; I spent 42 years diagnosing heart conditions. I knew these symptoms. This was classic Digoxin toxicity.

But I was on a low, carefully calibrated dose of Digoxin for my Afib. There was no reason I should be experiencing toxicity unless someone was giving me more than prescribed.

I went to my medication organizer, the one Rachel had so helpfully filled every week. I examined the Digoxin tablets. They looked right—same shape, same color—but when I counted them, there were more than there should be. The prescription was for 0.125 mg once daily, but there were two tablets in several of the daily slots.

Someone was doubling my dose, deliberately inducing Digoxin toxicity. And if they increased it enough, my heart would stop. Digoxin in toxic levels causes fatal arrhythmias. It would look like my Afib had progressed—a natural death for a woman with a known heart condition.

My hands shook as I realized what was happening. My own son was poisoning me.

But I needed proof. Taking a suspicious pill bottle to the police wouldn’t be enough. Daniel would claim I’d made a mistake, that I was confused, that my memory wasn’t what it used to be. He’d paint me as a paranoid elderly woman who couldn’t manage her own medications. No, I needed concrete, undeniable evidence.,

Building the Defense

I called my lawyer that afternoon. Steven Rodriguez had handled all my medical practice contracts, my retirement negotiations, my estate planning. I trusted him completely.

“Steven, I need to see you immediately. And I need you to keep this completely confidential.”

We met at his office an hour later. I told him everything: the stolen money, the forged signatures, the medications, my symptoms, my suspicions. Steven listened without interrupting, his expression growing graver with each detail.

“Victoria,” he finally said, “if what you’re saying is true, you’re in immediate danger. You need to call the police right now.”

“I need more evidence first,” I insisted. “I know my son. He’ll deny everything. He’ll have explanations. I need irrefutable proof.”

We spent two hours strategizing. Steven would immediately file paperwork to revoke any power of attorney Daniel might claim. He’d draft a new will explicitly disinheriting anyone who attempted to harm me. He’d document everything we discussed, creating a legal paper trail.

“If something happens to me,” I told Steven, “make sure the police see all of this.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Steven said firmly. “But yes, everything will be documented and deposited with a third party.”

Next, I did something I’d never imagined I’d need to do in my own home: I called a security company and had hidden cameras installed. Bedroom, kitchen, hallways, living room—small discrete cameras that streamed to a secure cloud server. Whatever happened in my house would be recorded.

Then I called Dr. Park directly on her personal cell.

“Ellen, I need you to run a Digoxin level today. And I need you to do it quietly without telling anyone.”

“Victoria, what’s wrong?”

“I think someone is poisoning me. I’ll explain everything, but I need that blood test first.”

Ellen met me at her office within the hour. She drew the blood herself and rushed it to the lab with instructions to call her directly with results.

The Trap is Set

Three hours later, she called me back.

“Victoria, your Digoxin level is 3.2. That’s toxic. You should be in the hospital. How are you even functioning?”

“Medical stubbornness,” I said. “What would happen if someone kept increasing my dose?”

“Fatal arrhythmia. Your heart would stop. Victoria, who has access to your medications?”

“My son and his wife. They’ve been living with me.”

The silence on the other end was heavy.

“What do you need from me?”

“Documentation. Detailed records of this toxic level. And I need you to adjust my official prescription in your records to show a lower dose than I’m supposedly taking. I need to prove someone is adding pills.”

Ellen understood immediately. “I’ll fax you a prescription for 0.0625 mg, half your current dose. If anyone checks, that’s what you should be taking. But Victoria, please be careful.”

I had my evidence: toxic blood levels, financial fraud. But I needed one more thing. I needed them to actually attempt it again, on camera, with witnesses ready.

I continued my routine, but I stopped taking the medication from the organizer Rachel filled. Instead, I carefully disposed of those pills and took properly dosed medication I’d picked up from a pharmacy across town, using a prescription Ellen had called in under a slightly different variation of my name.,

I pretended to be increasingly weak, confused, sick. I wanted them to think their plan was working. Daniel and Rachel grew bolder. They started talking more openly when they thought I was napping or out of hearing range. I’d positioned my phone to record audio in the living room.

“How much longer?” Rachel’s voice, impatient.

“Soon. The symptoms are progressing. Once her heart stops, everything transfers to me immediately. The house, the practice building, all the accounts.”

“What about the new will she mentioned?”

“She never filed it. Steven confirmed it. The old will still stands. Everything comes to me.”

They were wrong about that. Steven had filed the new will immediately, but I’d asked him to let them think otherwise.