At my age. As if 70 meant I was already gone and just hadn’t noticed yet. “You know,” I said thoughtfully, “you’re absolutely right.
Anything could happen at my age. That’s exactly why I spent the day updating my will.”
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees. “Your will?” Jessica’s voice was carefully neutral.
“Oh, yes. It’s amazing how a brush with mortality, even someone else’s, makes you think about these things. I realized my old will was terribly out of date.”
Michael’s face had gone pale.
“What kind of updates?”
I smiled at him. The same smile I’d used when he was 8 years old and I’d caught him lying about breaking my favorite vase. “Oh, just some minor adjustments to reflect my current priorities.
You know how these things go.”
The silence that followed was deafening. I could practically hear their minds racing, trying to figure out how badly their plans had just been disrupted. “Well,” Jessica said finally, her voice tight, “I’m sure whatever you decided was for the best.”
“I think so, too, dear.”
They left shortly after, promising to check on me soon.
I watched from my security monitor as they sat in their car in my driveway for 10 minutes, having what looked like a very intense conversation. Then Jessica made a phone call. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I could see her gesturing angrily.
Michael kept trying to take the phone away from her, and she kept pushing his hand aside. When they finally drove away, I poured myself a glass of wine and settled into my favorite chair. Tomorrow, I would implement phase two of my plan.
But tonight, I was going to enjoy the first peaceful evening I’d had in days. After all, there’s something deeply satisfying about watching your enemies realize they’ve underestimated you. The game was just beginning, and I’d been playing it a lot longer than they had.
The next morning brought a visitor I wasn’t expecting. Helen Peterson stood on my doorstep looking pale but determined, clutching a small purse like a lifeline. “Sarah, I need to talk to you,” she said without preamble.
“It’s about the other night.”
I invited her in and made tea, studying her face for signs of what she’d endured. She looked tired but alert, certainly more coherent than her daughter would have liked me to believe. “Jessica told me I had some kind of reaction to medication,” Helen said, settling into my living room chair.
“But Sarah, I don’t take any medications except vitamins. Haven’t for years.”
Interesting. “What do you remember about the party?”
“Everything.
Until I started feeling dizzy. I remember the champagne tasting strange—bitter, almost metallic—and I remember seeing Jessica near the drinks table earlier doing something with a small bottle.”
My pulse quickened. “What kind of bottle?”
“Like an eyedropper bottle, the kind you’d use for essential oils or other things.”
Helen’s hands shook slightly as she set down her teacup.
“Sarah, I think my daughter tried to harm you.”
“Why would you think that?”
Helen’s laugh was bitter. “Because she’s been talking about your money for months. How unfair it is that you have so much and they struggle.
How much easier their lives would be if… if something happened to you.”
The pieces were falling into place. “Has she said anything specific?”
“Last month, she asked me if I thought you’d updated your will recently. She seemed very concerned about Michael’s inheritance.” Helen met my eyes.
“Sarah, I think they’ve been planning this for a while.”
I made a decision. Helen deserved to know what her daughter had tried to do, and I needed an ally who’d witnessed their behavior firsthand. “Helen, I saw Jessica put something in my champagne glass.
I switched our drinks deliberately.”
The color drained from her face. “She tried to hurt you, and I almost—” Helen’s voice cracked. We sat in silence for a moment, processing the magnitude of what had happened.
“What are you going to do?” Helen asked finally. “I’m going to give them exactly what they want,” I said. “Just not the way they expect to get it.”
Helen raised an eyebrow.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your daughter and my son are about to learn that some games have higher stakes than they realized.”
After Helen left, I made a phone call to an old business contact. Patricia Williams ran a private investigation firm that specialized in corporate espionage and background checks. We’d worked together several times over the years when I needed information about potential business partners.
“Sarah Wilson.” Patricia’s voice was warm through the phone. “I heard about your sale. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Patricia.
I need a favor. A personal one.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I need to know everything about my son’s finances. Bank accounts, credit cards, loans, investments—everything.”
There was a pause.
“Sarah, are you sure? Sometimes family information can be uncomfortable.”
“I’m sure.”
“Give me 48 hours.”
While Patricia worked her magic, I implemented the next phase of my plan. I called Michael and asked him to meet me for lunch at our old restaurant—the place we’d celebrated his graduation from architecture school, his wedding, Emma’s birth.
He arrived looking nervous, constantly checking his phone. “How are you feeling, Mom? You sounded upset when you called.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you and Jessica said.
About my safety. About planning for the future.”
His face brightened. “And I think you’re right.
I think it’s time to make some changes.”
Michael leaned forward eagerly. “What kind of changes?”
“Well, I’ve been looking into Sunset Manor, the place you mentioned. I called them this morning.”
“That’s wonderful, Mom.
I think you’ll really like it there.”
“They do have an opening, but it needs to be filled quickly. Someone else is interested in the same unit.”
“How quickly?”
“Next week. I’d need to pay the entrance fee by Friday to secure it.”
Michael’s excitement was palpable.
“That’s not a problem, is it? You have the money from the sale.”
“Of course, I do. It’s just… well, it’s a big step.
I thought maybe you and Jessica could help me with the paperwork. Make sure I’m making the right decision.”
“Absolutely. We’d be happy to help.”
I smiled at my son, memorizing his face.
In a few days, that eager expression would change to something very different. “There’s just one thing,” I added casually. “The facility requires all residents to have a power of attorney on file.
Someone to make decisions if they become unable to. I was hoping you’d be willing to take that on.”
“Of course, Mom. Whatever you need.”
Perfect.
Michael thought he was maneuvering me into giving him control of my money. Instead, he was walking directly into my trap. Patricia called Thursday morning with her report.
I listened in growing amazement as she detailed Michael and Jessica’s financial situation. It was worse than I’d imagined. “They’re leveraged to the hilt,” Patricia said.
“The house has been refinanced three times. They have two mortgages plus a home equity line of credit that’s maxed out. Credit card debt exceeding $80,000.”
“How have they been making payments?”
“Barely.
Michael’s business has been operating at a loss for 2 years. They’ve been using credit cards to pay other credit cards. Classic signs of financial desperation.”
“Anything else?”
“Jessica took out a life insurance policy on you 6 months ago.
$500,000 with her listed as beneficiary.”
My blood turned to ice. “How is that legal?”
“She claimed insurable interest as your daughter-in-law and caregiver. The insurance company probably assumed Michael was the actual beneficiary and Jessica was just handling the paperwork.”
A life insurance policy.
They’d been planning my downfall for months, not days. “There’s one more thing, Sarah. Michael’s been making regular payments to someone named Dr.
Richard Steinberg, a geriatric psychiatrist.”
“For what?”
“I’m not sure yet, but the payments started 3 months ago. Small amounts, like consultation fees.”
Dr. Richard Steinberg.
I made a note to ask David about him. That afternoon, Michael and Jessica arrived at my house with a briefcase full of paperwork for Sunset Manor. They spread the documents across my dining room table like generals planning a battle.
“This is the admission contract,” Jessica explained, pointing to a thick stack of papers. “And this is the financial disclosure form. It lists all your assets so they can calculate your monthly fees.”
“It’s very thorough,” I observed, scanning the documents.
