My son forgot to end our call after planning Thanksgiving. Through the phone, I heard him say, “They don’t suspect a thing.” His wife replied, “Rich old people are always the easiest to kidnap.” I called a private investigator that hour.
You know, after 35 years of raising David, you’d think I’d learn to hang up the phone properly. But there I was, Thursday afternoon, holding my cell phone like it might explode while listening to my own son plot my kidnapping. The irony wasn’t lost on me that the same kid who couldn’t remember to call on my birthday had just forgotten to end our call about Thanksgiving dinner.
“David, honey, are you still there?”
I’d asked, but got no response. I was about to hang up when I heard footsteps and Christina’s voice clear as day.
“Did she buy it?”
That was my daughter-in-law, sweet Christina, with her perfect smile and designer handbags.
“Hook, line, and sinker,” David replied. “David, she’s so excited about hosting Thanksgiving. She even offered to make her famous apple pie.”
I pressed the phone closer to my ear, my heart starting that familiar flutter it gets when something’s wrong. Maybe they were planning a surprise. Maybe this was about a gift or perfect timing.
“Too,” Christina continued. “With the gambling debts piling up, we need that inheritance money now. The plan’s foolproof.”
My legs suddenly felt weak. I sank into my kitchen chair, the one with the faded floral cushion that Harold had bought me 20 years ago.
“You sure the sedatives will work fast enough?” David’s voice carried that same tone he’d used as a teenager when asking if I’d cover for him with his father.
“Trust me, I’ve done my research. Two dissolved pills in her evening wine. She’ll be unconscious within 30 minutes. We’ll move her to the cabin. Send the ransom note to herself from her own email account. Make it look like professionals targeted her because of Harold’s insurance money.”
The room started spinning. These weren’t strangers discussing some movie plot. This was my son, my boy, who used to bring me dandelions and called them flowers, planning to drug and kidnap his own mother.
“And if she doesn’t pay quickly enough,” Christina’s voice had that calculating edge I’d noticed creeping in over the past year, “then we make it look like the kidnappers got impatient. Tragic accident. Either way, we inherit everything.”
David’s laugh made my blood freeze.
“Rich old people really are the easiest targets. Too trusting, too predictable.”
I ended the call with shaking fingers and sat there in my empty kitchen, staring at the Thanksgiving menu I’d been planning. Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and apparently my own kidnapping for dessert.
But here’s what my dear son didn’t know about his predictable old mother. Harold hadn’t just left me money. He’d left me connections, including a business card for James Rodriguez, a private investigator who’d helped Harold’s company with some delicate matters over the years. I dialed the number before I could lose my nerve.
“Rodriguez Investigations.”
“Mr. Rodriguez, this is Margaret Thompson, Harold Thompson’s widow. I need your help, and I need it today.”
“Mrs. Thompson, of course. Harold spoke of you often. What can I do for you?”
I took a deep breath, looking at the family photo on my mantle, where David smiled innocently at the camera.
“I need you to help me catch my son planning to kidnap me, and I think we have about six days to do it.”
The silence on the other end lasted exactly three seconds. Then James Rodriguez said the words that changed everything.
“Ma’am, I think you and I need to meet tonight.”
As I hung up the phone, I realized something had shifted inside me. The scared, betrayed mother was being replaced by someone harder, smarter, someone who’d spent 40 years managing Harold’s business accounts and knew exactly how much planning went into any successful operation. David wanted to play games with a rich old lady. Well, this rich old lady was about to teach him that some games have consequences he never saw coming.
James Rodriguez didn’t look like what Hollywood told me a private investigator should look like. No rumpled coat, no 5:00 shadow, just a clean-cut man in his 50s, wearing a crisp navy suit and carrying a leather briefcase that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
“Mrs. Thompson.”
He stood as I entered the coffee shop near downtown, extending a firm handshake.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Harold was a good man.”
“Thank you.”
I slid into the booth across from him, grateful for the corner location he’d chosen. Privacy was going to be essential.
“I suppose this is an unusual situation.”
“In 30 years of investigations, I’ve learned that family cases are never usual.”
He opened his briefcase and pulled out a digital recorder.
“Do you mind if we record this? It helps me keep facts straight.”
I nodded and he pressed a small button.
“November 15th, 2025. Initial consultation with Margaret Thompson. Mrs. Thompson, can you tell me exactly what you heard?”
I recounted the entire conversation, watching his expression shift from professional interest to genuine concern. When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
“Mrs. Thompson, how much money are we talking about?”
“Harold left me $2.8 million, plus the house and his investment portfolio. David knows about the inheritance, but I don’t think he realizes the full amount.”
James made notes on a legal pad.
“And the gambling debts David mentioned?”
“I had no idea he gambled, but it explains why he’s been asking for loans lately. Small amounts, a few hundred here and there. He said it was for car repairs, house maintenance.”
I felt foolish admitting it.
“I gave him money because he’s my son.”
“When is this Thanksgiving dinner supposed to happen?”
“Thursday, November 23rd, at my house. They usually arrive around 4:00.”
James consulted his calendar.
“That gives us eight days. Plenty of time.”
He looked up, his dark eyes serious.
“Mrs. Thompson, I have to ask. Are you certain you want to do this? Once we start recording evidence, there’s no going back. Your relationship with your son will never be the same.”
I thought about David’s laugh when he discussed making my kidnapping look like a tragic accident.
“Mr. Rodriguez, I buried my husband three years ago. I’ve been lonely, sure, but I never felt truly alone until today. My relationship with my son ended the moment he decided I was worth more dead than alive.”
He nodded slowly.
“All right, then. Here’s what we’re going to do. First, I’ll run background checks on both David and Christina. Financial records, phone records if possible, any criminal history. Second, I’ll install surveillance equipment in your house, hidden cameras and audio recording devices.”
“Is that legal?”
“It’s your house, Mrs. Thompson. You can record anything that happens in your own home.”
He made another note.
“Third, we’ll document everything they do between now and Thanksgiving. Every visit, every phone call, every suspicious behavior.”
The magnitude of what we were planning hit me.
“What if they suspect something?”
“Then we adapt. But Mrs. Thompson, you have one huge advantage here.”
“What’s that?”
James Rodriguez smiled, and for the first time since answering David’s call, I felt something other than fear.
“They think you’re just a helpless old lady. They have no idea they’re dealing with Harold Thompson’s widow.”
He was right about that. Harold had built his business by being two steps ahead of his competitors. Apparently, he’d married a woman cut from the same cloth.
“When do we start?” I asked.
“Tonight. I’ll install the basic equipment after dark. Tomorrow morning, you call David and Christina. Act normal, excited about Thanksgiving. Can you do that?”
I thought about 40 years of corporate dinners where I’d smiled and made small talk with people Harold couldn’t stand.
“Mr. Rodriguez, I perfected the art of acting normal decades ago.”
“One more thing, Mrs. Thompson. From this moment forward, you can’t tell anyone about our plan. Not friends, not neighbors, nobody. Can you handle being completely alone with this secret for the next eight days?”
I looked around the coffee shop at couples sharing dessert and families laughing together. After Harold’s death, I’d gotten used to being alone. But this was different. This was choosing to be alone while surrounded by people who wanted to hurt me.
“I’ve been handling things alone since Harold died, Mr. Rodriguez. I think I can manage eight more days.”
As we left the coffee shop, James handed me a cell phone.
“This is a secure line. If anything feels wrong, anything at all, you call me immediately, day or night.”
Walking to my car, I realized that for the first time in three years, I had a purpose beyond just existing. David and Christina thought they were hunting a wealthy widow. They had no idea the widow was about to start hunting back.
The next morning, I called David at exactly 9:00, right after his first cup of coffee. After 35 years of being his mother, I knew his schedule better than he did.
“Hey, Mom.”
His voice was cheerful, the same tone he’d used yesterday when planning my kidnapping.
“What’s up?”
“I just wanted to confirm Thursday’s menu. Honey, are you still bringing the wine?”
“Of course. Christina picked out something special. She said you’d love it.”
I bet she did. Probably something that would hide the taste of sedatives.
“That’s wonderful, dear. Oh, and I was thinking maybe you could come a little earlier. Say around 2:00. We could spend some extra time together.”
There was a pause.
“2:00. That’s pretty early, Mom. I thought we agreed on four.”
“I know, sweetie, but I’ve been feeling a bit lonely lately. It would mean so much to me.”
I put just enough waiver in my voice to sound pathetic without being suspicious.
“Unless you have other plans.”
“No, no plans. 2:00 is fine. Christina will love the extra time to catch up with you.”
“I’m sure she would.”
Two extra hours to drug me probably sounded like a gift.
After hanging up, I reviewed the notes James had given me. Act normal, but gather intelligence. I needed to understand exactly what David and Christina were planning, and more importantly, what had driven them to this point.
At 11:00, I drove to David’s office. He worked as a sales manager at a car dealership, the kind of job that looked respectable but came with unpredictable income, perfect cover for someone with gambling problems.
“Mrs. Thompson.”
The receptionist, a young woman with bright pink hair, greeted me warmly.
“David didn’t mention you were coming in.”
“It’s a surprise. I brought him lunch.”
I held up the bag from his favorite deli.
“Is he with a customer?”
“Conference call, but he should be done in 10 minutes. You can wait in his office if you want.”
David’s office was small but neat, with family photos on his desk and sales awards on the wall. I set the lunch on his desk and casually glanced around while the receptionist returned to her duties. His computer screen showed an email program, and while I couldn’t read the details, I could see several messages marked urgent in red. His desk calendar had appointments marked “AC” and “MM” for the past three weeks, always on Fridays after work.
The filing cabinet next to his desk was unlocked. I opened the top drawer and found what I was looking for: bank statements. David had always been careless with paperwork. The numbers told a story that made my stomach clench. Three months ago, David’s checking account had regular deposits from his salary and small withdrawals for normal expenses. Then suddenly, massive withdrawals: $5,000, $8,000, $12,000. His savings account, which had shown a healthy $45,000 balance in August, was now overdrawn.
But worse were the credit card statements. David owed $67,000 across six different cards, with most of the charges at places called Riverside Gaming and Lucky Strike Casino.
“Mom.”
I spun around, my heart hammering. David stood in the doorway, his expression shifting from surprise to suspicion.
“I brought you lunch, honey.”
I gestured to the bag on his desk, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt.
“You were looking through my filing cabinet.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I was looking for a pen to leave you a note. The drawer was already open.”
The lie came smoothly, a skill I’d learned during Harold’s business dealings.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”
David’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Sorry, I’m just stressed about work. Big sale falling through.”
He moved to his desk and closed the filing cabinet.
“Thanks for lunch, but I have another call in five minutes.”
“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll let you get back to work.”
I kissed his cheek, the same way I had when he was eight years old and scraped his knee.
“See you Thursday.”
Driving home, I called James Rodriguez using the secure phone.
“What did you find?”
“David’s in debt for at least $67,000, probably more. Gambling debts to what look like professional operations. The kind of people who don’t accept late payments gracefully.”
“That explains the timeline pressure. Those organizations don’t give extensions. James, what if this isn’t just about greed? What if David’s in real danger from these people?”
There was a pause.
“Mrs. Thompson, does that change your feelings about what he’s planning to do to you?”
I thought about David’s laugh when discussing my tragic accident.
“No, I suppose it doesn’t. Desperation might explain his actions, but it doesn’t excuse them.”
“Good, because we found something else today. Christina’s background check came back with some interesting information.”
“What kind of information?”
“The kind that suggests she’s done this before. I’m sending a file to your email address now. Mrs. Thompson, I think you need to understand exactly who your daughter-in-law really is.”
As I pulled into my driveway, I realized that David might not be the mastermind I’d assumed. And if Christina had experience with this kind of operation, that changed everything about our plan. Some predators hunt alone, others hunt in packs. I was beginning to suspect my family fell into the latter category.
Christina Michelle Thompson—Christina née Richardson—had been married twice before David. Her first husband, Robert Chen, died in a home invasion robbery in Phoenix six months after their wedding. Her second husband, Marcus Williams, died in a car accident in Denver eight months after their marriage. Both men had substantial life insurance policies. Both deaths were investigated and ruled accidental.
I stared at James Rodriguez’s report, sitting in my kitchen with a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. The documentation was thorough. Newspaper clippings, police reports, insurance payouts totaling 1.2 million across both marriages.
“Two dead husbands in five years,” James had said when he called. “Either she’s the unluckiest woman in America, or she’s the most dangerous.”
The photographs in the file showed a younger Christina, but her smile was the same. Beautiful, charming, and somehow predatory. Even in her wedding photos, her eyes held a calculating coldness that made my skin crawl.
My phone buzzed with a text message from her.
“Hi, Margaret. So excited for Thursday. David and I have such a wonderful surprise planned for you. Xoxo.”
I stared at the message, my hands trembling slightly. This woman had potentially killed two men for insurance money, and now she was planning to kidnap me for my inheritance. David might be desperate and stupid, but Christina was something far more dangerous. A professional.
The secure phone rang.
“James Rodriguez.”
“Mrs. Thompson, we have a problem. I’ve been monitoring your home phone line, and there’s been unusual activity.”
“What kind of activity?”
“Someone’s been calling your number and hanging up when the answering machine picks up. Three times yesterday, four times this morning, always from untraceable numbers.”
My blood ran cold.
“They’re checking to see if I’m home.”
“That’s my assessment. Mrs. Thompson, I think they might be planning to move before Thursday. You need to leave your house tonight.”
“Leave? Where would I go?”
“Hotel, friend’s house, anywhere that’s not your normal routine. Just for a few days while we finish gathering evidence.”
I looked around my kitchen at the photos on my refrigerator and the ceramic rooster collection Harold had bought me over the years. This was my home. I wasn’t going to run from my own son and his murderous wife.
“No, Mr. Rodriguez. If they want to play games in my house, we’ll play games in my house, but we’ll play by my rules.”
“Mrs. Thompson, with respect, you’re dealing with people who may have killed before.”
“Then it’s time they learned what happens when you threaten someone who survived 40 years of corporate boardroom warfare.”
I surprised myself with the steel in my voice.
“What’s our surveillance status?”
James sighed.
“Cameras and audio equipment are fully installed. We have complete coverage of your main floor, kitchen, and living room. But Mrs. Thompson, if they decide to escalate—”
“Let them escalate. How fast can you get here if I need backup?”
“15 minutes, maybe less.”
“And local police response time?”
“Eight to ten minutes if you call 911.”
I did some mental calculations.
“James, I want to modify our plan. Instead of waiting until Thursday, I want to force their hand sooner.”
“How?”
“I’m going to call David right now and tell him I’ve been feeling dizzy and confused. That I’m worried about my health. I’ll suggest moving Thanksgiving dinner to tomorrow night instead.”
“That’s extremely dangerous, Mrs. Thompson.”
“It’s strategic. Right now, they have eight days to refine their plan and possibly discover our surveillance. If I force them to move quickly, they’ll make mistakes.”
There was a long pause.
“What if they decide it’s easier to just kill you immediately rather than kidnap you?”
I thought about Christina’s text message, so cheerful and loving while planning my destruction.
“Mr. Rodriguez, they need me alive long enough to access my accounts and make the inheritance transfer look legitimate. They can’t just murder me and hope for the best.”
“Mrs. Thompson, you’re taking an enormous risk.”
“I’m a 70-year-old widow with no close friends and a son who wants me dead. Every day I’m alive is an enormous risk.”
I looked at Harold’s photograph on the mantle.
“At least this way, I get to choose how the story ends.”
After hanging up, I called David’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“Hi, honey. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
“Not at all, Mom. What’s going on?”
“I’ve been having some dizzy spells lately, and I’m concerned about cooking a big meal on Thursday. Would it be possible to move Thanksgiving to tomorrow night instead? Just a simple dinner, nothing fancy.”
The silence stretched long enough that I wondered if he’d hung up.
“Tomorrow night? That’s pretty sudden, Mom.”
“I know, sweetheart, but I’d hate to ruin Thanksgiving by collapsing in the kitchen. And frankly, I’m tired of waiting. I’ve been so looking forward to spending time with you both.”
“Let me talk to Christina and call you back.”
“Okay, of course. Love you, honey.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
After hanging up, I realized my hands weren’t shaking anymore. Whatever happened tomorrow night, at least I wouldn’t spend another week living in fear.
James Rodriguez called back 20 minutes later.
“Change of plans accepted. Emergency backup protocols are now in effect. Mrs. Thompson, are you absolutely certain about this?”
I looked around my kitchen one more time, at 40 years of memories and the life I’d built with Harold. David and Christina thought they could walk into my home and destroy everything I’d worked for.
“Mr. Rodriguez. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Tomorrow night, we’d find out what my family was really made of.”
David called back within an hour, his voice bright with forced enthusiasm.
“Great news, Mom. Christina said tomorrow night works perfectly. In fact, she’s excited about the intimate setting. More time to really connect, you know.”
“Wonderful. Darling, what time should I expect you?”
“How about 6:00? Christina wants to bring a special bottle of wine she’s been saving for a celebration.”
I bet she does.
“That sounds lovely. Should I prepare anything special?”
“Just yourself, Mom. Christina and I want to focus on family time. Oh, and she suggested we eat in the dining room instead of the kitchen. Make it feel more formal, more special.”
The dining room, furthest from the front door with only one exit. Perfect for their purposes and fortunately perfect for ours, too. James had installed three cameras with clear sight lines to the dining table.
“That’s a sweet idea. I’ll set the good china.”
After hanging up, I called the secure line.
“Rodriguez, tomorrow night, 6:00. They want to use the dining room.”
“Good choice on their part. Terrible choice for us. That room only has one exit, Mrs. Thompson.”
“It also has the best camera coverage. James, I need to know once they drug me. How long before I’m unconscious?”
“If they’re using standard sedatives, probably 15 to 30 minutes, depending on dosage and your body weight. Why?”
“Because I need to appear to drink whatever they give me. But I need to stay conscious long enough to get a full confession on tape.”
“Mrs. Thompson, you can’t fake being unconscious for however long it takes them to move you. And if they realize you’re awake—”
“I’m not planning to fake anything.”
I looked at the bottle of wine I’d bought that afternoon.
“I’m planning to be legitimately unconscious, but only after we have what we need.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Harold was diabetic for the last 10 years of his life. I have emergency glucose tablets that counteract sedative effects, at least temporarily. I can take them right before dinner, drink whatever they give me, get their confession, then let the drugs take effect.”
“That’s incredibly dangerous. You’re talking about playing chemical roulette with your own body.”
“I’m talking about being smart about this, James. They need to believe their plan is working or they’ll panic and possibly do something worse than kidnapping.”
There was a long pause.
“Mrs. Thompson, I want multiple backup plans in place. First, I’ll be monitoring from the van outside. At the first sign of real danger, I’m coming in. Second, I want you wearing a panic button. Third, if you don’t check in with me every hour starting at 5:00 tomorrow, I’m calling in police backup.”
“Agreed.”
“And Mrs. Thompson, the glucose tablets are a temporary fix at best. You’ll have maybe an extra 20 minutes of consciousness before the sedatives override everything. Use that time wisely.”
That evening, I did something I hadn’t done since Harold’s funeral. I called my sister Patricia in Florida.
“Margaret, how wonderful to hear from you. How are you holding up?”
“I’m well, Patricia. Listen, I need to ask you something important. If something were to happen to me, what would you think of David?”
“David? He’s your son, honey. I think he was grieving and probably needs help with arrangements. Why? Is your health okay?”
“My health is fine. But Patricia, if the police ever tell you that David was involved in something terrible, I want you to believe them.”
“Margaret, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“I can’t explain right now, but I need you to promise me something. If anything happens to me, make sure the police investigate thoroughly. Don’t let anyone tell you it was an accident or natural causes. Margaret—”
“Promise me, Patricia.”
“I promise, but you’re really frightening me.”
“I love you, sister. Take care of yourself.”
After hanging up, I wrote a letter explaining everything and placed it in an envelope addressed to Patricia. If James Rodriguez’s plan failed, at least someone would know the truth. I spent the rest of the evening preparing, glucose tablets hidden in my pocket, emergency cash in my purse, copies of important documents in a safety deposit box across town. Harold had always said the key to any successful negotiation was having multiple exit strategies. Tomorrow night, I’d need all of them.
At 10:00, James called with final details.
“Mrs. Thompson, we’ve identified a third person who might be involved.”
“What third person?”
“Christina’s brother, Marcus Richardson. He lives about an hour north of town. Owns property that would be perfect for holding someone against their will. Phone records show he’s been in regular contact with both David and Christina over the past two weeks.”
A brother. The family reunion was getting bigger.
“James, how many people are we potentially dealing with?”
“Could be as many as three, possibly more. Mrs. Thompson, this changes the risk assessment significantly. I really think we should bring in law enforcement now.”
“With what evidence? We have suspicions and surveillance footage of family dinner conversations. That’s not enough for arrests.”
“It might be enough for protection.”
I looked around my kitchen, imagining police officers stationed throughout my house, turning my home into a crime scene before any crime had been committed.
“24 more hours, James. If we can get them on tape planning or attempting the kidnapping, we’ll have enough evidence to put them away for years. But if we move too soon, they’ll just disappear and try again later.”
“Mrs. Thompson, you’re betting your life on this plan.”
“No, Mr. Rodriguez, I’m betting my life on the assumption that my son still has enough conscience left to hesitate when it matters. And if I’m wrong about that…”
I looked at Harold’s photograph one more time.
“Then at least I’ll go down fighting.”
I woke up at 5:30 Wednesday morning with that peculiar clarity that comes from knowing your life might end in 15 hours. Everything looked sharper. The way morning light filtered through my bedroom curtains. The sound of birds arguing over the feeder outside my window. The faint smell of Harold’s cologne that still lingered in our closet after three years.
James had called at midnight to report unusual activity. Someone had driven past my house four times between 10 and 11 p.m., slowing down each time but never stopping.
“Reconnaissance,” he’d explained. “They’re checking your normal routine, looking for signs that anything’s changed.”
I’d maintained that routine religiously. Lights off by 10:30. Morning newspaper retrieved at 6:15. Coffee maker programmed for 6:00 a.m. If David and Christina were watching, they’d see exactly what they expected: a predictable old woman following the same patterns she’d maintained for years. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
At 8:00, I called David to confirm dinner plans, partly to maintain the pretense, and partly because I needed to hear his voice one more time. Some part of me still hoped I’d detect reluctance, fear, anything that suggested my son had doubts about what he was planning.
“Morning, Mom. Ready for our special dinner?”
“I’m so excited, honey. It’s been too long since we’ve had real family time.”
“Christina’s been cooking all morning. She wants everything to be perfect.”
His voice carried genuine warmth. The same tone he’d used as a child when describing Christmas morning.
“She really loves you, Mom. I hope you know that.”
The casual way he lied about Christina’s feelings while planning my kidnapping was somehow more chilling than outright threats would have been.
“I love her, too, David. She’s been a wonderful addition to our family.”
“She’s excited about tonight. We both are.”
After hanging up, I realized something had shifted in my emotions. The fear was still there, but it was now overshadowed by something colder. Curiosity. I genuinely wanted to see how far they’d go, how convincing they’d be while poisoning their mother and grandmother.
At noon, James called with an update that made my blood freeze.
“Mrs. Thompson, we have confirmation that Marcus Richardson is in town. Hotel records show he checked into the Riverside Inn yesterday evening. Whatever they’re planning, they’ve brought in outside help.”
“Where’s the Riverside Inn?”
“20 minutes from your house. Perfect distance for a quick response, but far enough away to avoid suspicion.”
I looked out my kitchen window at the neighborhood where I’d lived for 15 years. Mr. Patterson was mowing his lawn. Mrs. Chen was weeding her garden. Normal people doing normal things while I prepared to be drugged and kidnapped by my own family.
“James, I want to change one part of our plan.”
“Mrs. Thompson, please tell me you’re not having second thoughts about backup.”
“No, it’s about the evidence. I want to ask them directly about their financial situation, their debts. If we can get them to admit to gambling problems or pressure from creditors, it establishes motive.”
“That’s risky. Direct questions might make them suspicious.”
“Not if I frame it as motherly concern. David’s always been careless about money. It would be natural for me to worry.”
There was a pause.
“Mrs. Thompson, may I ask you something personal?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think there’s any chance David might change his mind at the last minute? Any possibility he’ll realize he can’t go through with this?”
I considered the question seriously.
“Mr. Rodriguez, three months ago, I would have said absolutely. David was a good boy, troubled sometimes, but fundamentally decent. But the man who laughed about making my kidnapping look like a tragic accident—I don’t know who that person is. People can surprise you even in extreme circumstances.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. The question is whether they’ll surprise me in a good way or a bad way.”
At 4:00, I began final preparations. I set the dining room table with my best china, the pattern Harold had bought for our 20th anniversary. I arranged flowers in the centerpiece, opened a bottle of wine to let it breathe, and put a roast in the oven that would be perfectly ready by 7:00. If this was going to be my last dinner as a free woman, I wanted it to be memorable.
James called at 5:15.
“Everything’s in position, Mrs. Thompson. I have clear visual and audio from all angles. Emergency responders are on standby two blocks away. Are you ready?”
I looked around my dining room one more time, memorizing every detail. The china cabinet Harold had built by hand. The family photos that included pictures of David’s graduation, his wedding. Happier times when I’d believed in the fundamental goodness of people I loved.
“As ready as someone can be for their own kidnapping, I suppose.”
“Mrs. Thompson, remember the panic button is in your left pocket. Three quick presses and we’re coming in immediately. Don’t try to be heroic.”
“Mr. Rodriguez, at 70 years old, heroism and stupidity become increasingly difficult to distinguish.”
At 5:30, I took the glucose tablets and hid the empty bottle behind the flower canister. At 5:45, I checked my appearance in the hallway mirror. I looked like exactly what I was supposed to be: a lonely widow excited about spending time with family.
At 5:50, a car pulled into my driveway. David and Christina had arrived early, carrying what looked like an expensive bottle of wine and wearing smiles that would have been convincing to anyone who hadn’t heard them planning my kidnapping. Time to find out what kind of people they really were.
They looked like the perfect family arriving for Thanksgiving dinner. David carried a bouquet of yellow roses, my favorite flowers, which he’d somehow remembered, and Christina wore the blue dress I’d complimented at Easter dinner. If I hadn’t known better, I would have been genuinely touched by their thoughtfulness.
“Mom.”
David hugged me with what felt like real affection.
“You look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. You both look wonderful.”
I kissed Christina’s cheek, noting how she didn’t quite meet my eyes.
“Come in, come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Christina handed me the wine bottle with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“This is a special vintage I’ve been saving. I thought tonight would be perfect for it.”
The bottle was expensive. A 2018 Bordeaux that probably cost more than most people spent on weekly groceries. Perfect for masking the taste of sedatives.
“How thoughtful. Should we open it now or save it for dinner?”
“Let’s have it with dinner,” David suggested. “It’ll pair beautifully with the roast.”
I placed the wine on the kitchen counter and continued preparing dinner, chatting about neighborhood gossip and the weather while mentally reviewing James’s instructions. Be natural. Ask leading questions. Get them talking.
“David, honey, you look tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Just work stress, Mom, you know how it is.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you both about something.”
I turned to face them, my expression concerned but not suspicious.
“I’ve been thinking about updating my will, making sure everything’s in order, but I realized I don’t really understand your financial situation well enough to plan properly.”
David and Christina exchanged a quick glance.
“What do you mean, Mom?”
“Well, if something happened to me tomorrow, would you be able to handle the inheritance responsibly? Are there any debts or obligations I should know about?”
The silence lasted exactly four seconds. Then Christina laughed lightly.
“Margaret, you’re not going anywhere for years, but we’re doing fine financially.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I worry sometimes, especially with your job being commission-based, David. Income fluctuations can be challenging.”
David’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“We manage just fine, Mom.”
“Of course you do. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
I softened my tone, playing the apologetic mother.
“It’s just that Harold always said financial planning required complete honesty. If there were any gambling debts or credit card problems—”
“Gambling debts?”
David’s voice rose slightly.
“Why would you think I have gambling problems?”
“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t. It was just an example. Harold used to say that was the most common problem successful men faced.”
I watched his face carefully.
“I only mentioned it because you’ve seemed stressed lately.”
Christina placed a hand on David’s arm.
“Honey, your mother’s just being careful. That’s smart estate planning.”
“You’re right. Sorry, Mom. I guess I am more stressed than I realized.”
We moved to the dining room as the oven timer announced dinner was ready. I served the roast, grateful that my hands weren’t shaking, while David opened the wine. The cork came out with a soft pop, and he poured three generous glasses.
“A toast,” Christina suggested, raising her glass. “To family, and to the love that binds us together.”
“To family,” I agreed, lifting my own glass.
The wine was excellent, smooth and full-bodied, with just a slight bitter aftertaste that could have been tannins or could have been something else entirely. I sipped it slowly, monitoring my body for any unusual sensations while maintaining casual conversation.
“This roast is delicious, Mom,” David said. “Nobody cooks like you do.”
“Thank you, honey. It’s your grandmother’s recipe. I thought you might want to take the leftovers home.”
“That would be wonderful.”
Christina refilled my wine glass without being asked.
“You know, Margaret, David and I have been talking about how grateful we are for everything you’ve done for us over the years.”
“Oh, nonsense. That’s what family does.”
“No, really.”
David leaned forward, his expression earnest.
“The help with the house payments, the emergency loans, all of it. We don’t think we’ve ever properly thanked you.”
I felt a slight dizziness, though whether from emotion or chemistry was unclear.
“David, you’re my son. Your happiness is all the thanks I need.”
“Even so, we want you to know how much we appreciate your generosity.”
Christina’s voice was warm, almost loving.
“Not all mothers would be so understanding about their adult children’s financial challenges.”
Financial challenges. So, we were acknowledging problems now.
“Has it been very difficult?” I asked gently. “The financial pressure, I mean.”
David and Christina exchanged another look.
“Well, since you brought it up,” David began, “we have been dealing with some unexpected expenses lately.”
“What kind of expenses?”
“Medical bills,” Christina said smoothly. “David had some tests done, and insurance didn’t cover everything.”
The lie came so easily, I almost admired her skill.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is everything all right health-wise?”
“Everything’s fine now,” David assured me. “But the bills were substantial. We’ve been trying to handle it ourselves.”
“But—but it’s been challenging,” Christina finished. “We didn’t want to worry you.”
I felt the dizziness increasing and realized the glucose tablets were losing their effectiveness. Whatever they’d given me was stronger than standard sedatives. I needed to accelerate the conversation.
“How substantial are we talking about?”
David hesitated.
“About $60,000.”
Close to the truth. Just a different reason.
“Oh my goodness, that’s a significant amount. We’ve been exploring options,” Christina said. “But traditional loans are difficult with David’s commission-based income.”
“Have you considered asking me for help? I hate to think of you struggling when I have the resources to assist.”
“We couldn’t ask you to take on that burden, Mom.”
“It wouldn’t be a burden, sweetheart. It would be a gift.”
I watched their faces carefully.
“I could write you a check tonight if it would help.”
The offer hung in the air between us. David looked genuinely tempted, but Christina’s expression remained calculating.
“That’s incredibly generous, Margaret. But we couldn’t accept such a large gift.”
“Why not? I’m planning to leave you everything anyway. What difference does the timing make?”
“It makes a difference to us,” David said firmly. “We want to handle this ourselves.”
The room was starting to spin gently, like being on a slow carousel. I gripped the edge of the table and smiled.
“Well, the offer stands if you change your minds.”
“Actually,” Christina said, refilling my wine glass for the third time, “there is something we wanted to discuss with you tonight.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
She looked at David, who nodded encouragingly.
“We’ve been thinking about your living situation, Margaret. This house is so big for one person, and you’re here all alone.”
Here we go.
“I’ve been perfectly fine on my own, dear.”
“Of course you have. But David and I worry about you. What if you fell and no one was around? What if there was a medical emergency?”
The concern in her voice was masterful, warm and loving, while laying the groundwork for exactly what she was planning to do.
“I suppose those are valid concerns.” My words were starting to slur slightly. “What are you suggesting?”
“We think you should consider moving to a nice assisted living facility,” David said. “Somewhere with medical staff on site, social activities, people your own age.”
“You want me to sell the house?”
“Not immediately,” Christina assured me. “We could help manage the property while you transition to your new living arrangement.”
They wanted power of attorney. They wanted control of my assets while I was conveniently housed somewhere that couldn’t interfere with their plans.
“That’s—that’s very thoughtful. I’m having trouble focusing my eyes. Could we discuss this another time? I’m feeling a bit tired suddenly.”
“Of course, Mom, but maybe you should lie down for a few minutes. Just rest your eyes.”
David was standing now, moving toward my chair, the concerned son helping his elderly mother. This was it. Showtime.
“I think that’s a good idea,” I said, allowing my head to droop forward slightly. “I feel so strange, dizzy.”
“It’s probably just the wine, Margaret,” Christina said soothingly. “Here, let David help you to the living room couch.”
David’s hands were on my arms, supporting my weight as I pretended to struggle with coordination. As he helped me stand, I pressed the panic button three times in quick succession.
“Maybe you should call 911,” I mumbled, slurring my words dramatically. “Something’s wrong.”
“Let’s just get you comfortable first,” David replied. “You’ll feel better after a short nap.”
As they guided me toward the living room, I heard Christina speaking quietly behind us.
“It’s working faster than expected. We need to move quickly.”
James Rodriguez was about to have the evidence he needed. But first, I needed to survive the next few minutes.
The living room felt like a stage set, with me playing the role of helpless victim while David and Christina performed concerned family members. I let my body go limp as they settled me onto the couch, my head lolling to one side with what I hoped was convincing unconsciousness.
“Is she out?”
Christina’s voice was sharp, all pretense of loving daughter-in-law abandoned.
“Looks like it.”
David’s fingers pressed against my wrist, checking my pulse.
“Heart rate’s dropping. How much did you give her?”
“Double dose. I didn’t want to take any chances.”
Through barely opened eyelids, I watched Christina pace across my living room with the predatory grace of someone finally dropping their mask.
“We need to move fast. Marcus will be here with the van in 10 minutes.”
“What about the note?”
“Already typed on her computer. Sent from her email account to herself. Kidnappers demanding 2 million for her safe return.”
Christina pulled out her phone and showed David the screen.
“I scheduled it to send in three hours. By the time anyone sees it, we’ll have her secured at the cabin.”
David stared down at me, his expression unreadable.
“She looks so peaceful.”
“Don’t go soft on me now, David. Remember what happens if we don’t pay Marcus’s people by Friday.”
“I remember.”
His voice was tight.
They made their expectations very clear.
So Marcus wasn’t just Christina’s brother. He was connected to the people David owed money to. This was more than family greed. It was a coordinated operation.
“Check her pulse again,” Christina instructed. “We need her stable for transport, but unconscious for at least six hours.”
David’s fingers pressed against my neck.
“Still strong. Whatever you gave her is working.”
“Good. Help me get her jacket. It’s November and we don’t want her dying of hypothermia before we get the money.”
They were remarkably business-like about kidnapping their own family member. David retrieved my coat from the hall closet while Christina gathered my purse and checked its contents.
“Credit cards, driver’s license, house keys. Perfect. We’ll use these to make the kidnapping look more authentic.”
She looked around the room.
“What about signs of struggle?”
“I’ll knock over some furniture after we load her in the van. Make it look like she fought back.”
“Don’t overdo it. She’s 70 years old. Too much damage and it won’t be believable.”
I heard a vehicle in my driveway and car doors slamming. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of a dark van and a tall man walking toward my front door.
“That’s Marcus,” Christina said, checking her watch. “Right on time.”
The front door opened without a knock. Marcus Richardson looked exactly like what central casting would order for a criminal: mid-40s, muscular build, cold eyes, and a face that had seen its share of violence.
“How’s our patient?”
His voice carried a slight accent I couldn’t place.
“Unconscious and stable,” Christina reported. “Everything’s going according to plan.”
“Good. My associates are getting impatient. They want their money by Friday, or David here gets to experience some creative debt collection methods.”
David visibly paled.
“They’ll have their money. This plan is foolproof.”
“It better be, because if anything goes wrong, your mother won’t be the only one disappearing.”
Marcus walked over to examine me, his fingers checking my pulse with practiced efficiency.
“How long will she stay under?”
“Six to eight hours with the dosage I used.”
“Perfect. That gives us time to get her secured and send the initial demands.”
Marcus looked around my living room appreciatively.
“Nice house. She’s got good taste for an old lady.”
“She has good investments, too. Christina said the inheritance is worth almost three million, not counting the house and Harold’s business assets.”
“Even better. Rich people always pay quickly when family’s involved.”
Marcus checked his watch.
“Let’s move. I want to be at the cabin before 9:00.”
This was it. In about 30 seconds, they’d be carrying me out to that van. And once I was at Marcus’s cabin, all the surveillance equipment in the world wouldn’t help me. I needed James Rodriguez to move now.
As if reading my thoughts, I heard the faint sound of vehicles outside, followed by car doors closing much more quietly than Marcus’s arrival.
“Did you hear that?” David asked, moving toward the window.
“Hear what?”
“Cars. Multiple cars.”
Christina joined him at the window, peering through the curtains.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Something’s wrong,” David said, his voice tight with anxiety. “This feels wrong.”
“You’re paranoid,” Marcus said dismissively. “It’s probably neighbors coming home from work.”
But David was already moving toward the front door.
“I’m going to check.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Christina hissed. “If someone sees you—”
The front door burst open with a crash that shook the entire house. James Rodriguez stepped through, followed by four police officers in tactical gear, weapons drawn.
“Police, everyone on the ground now!”
The living room exploded into chaos. Marcus lunged for the back door while David and Christina stood frozen in shock. Christina was the first to recover, immediately switching back to concerned family member mode.
“Officers, thank God you’re here. Something’s wrong with Margaret. We think she’s had a medical emergency.”
“Save it, Mrs. Thompson,” James Rodriguez said calmly. “We have everything on tape.”
Marcus had reached the back door but found it blocked by two more officers. He spun around, his hand moving towards something inside his jacket.
“I wouldn’t,” one of the tactical officers advised. “Unless you want to add assault on a police officer to your kidnapping charges.”
Marcus slowly raised his hands, his face a mask of cold fury.
“David Thompson, Christina Thompson, Marcus Richardson, you’re all under arrest for conspiracy to commit kidnapping, conspiracy to commit fraud, and attempted poisoning.”
James Rodriguez’s voice was professional, almost bored.
“You have the right to remain silent.”
I opened my eyes fully and sat up on the couch, probably more dramatically than necessary.
“Hello, sweetheart,” I said to David, who was staring at me in complete shock, surprised to see me awake.
“Mom, how are you conscious?”
“Glucose tablets counteract sedatives temporarily. Your wife might want to research that before her next murder attempt.”
Christina’s mask slipped completely, revealing the cold predator underneath.
“You manipulative old— You set us up.”
“Language, dear. We have guests.”
As the police cuffed all three conspirators, David looked at me with something that might have been respect mixed with betrayal.
“How long have you known?”
“Since you forgot to hang up your phone yesterday. Did you really think I’d raised a son stupid enough to plan a crime over an open line?”
“This isn’t over,” Marcus said as they led him toward the door. “My associates don’t accept failure gracefully.”
“They’ll have to learn,” I replied. “Just like you’re all about to learn what happens when you underestimate a 70-year-old woman.”
As they loaded my family into police cars, I realized I felt something I hadn’t experienced in three years. Completely, genuinely alive. The game was over and I had won. But as I watched the tail lights disappear down my street, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Marcus’s threat wasn’t just posturing. Some games have consequences that extend far beyond the final score.
The house felt different after everyone left. James Rodriguez had stayed to complete paperwork and ensure all evidence was properly documented, but now even he was gone, leaving me alone with the aftermath of betrayal. I walked through my dining room, looking at the abandoned wine glasses and the half-eaten dinner that had nearly been my last meal as a free woman. The expensive Bordeaux sat open on the table, and I found myself pouring a fresh glass, careful to use a clean one from the kitchen. The wine tasted better without sedatives.
My secure phone rang at exactly 10:00.
“James Rodriguez. Mrs. Thompson, how are you holding up?”
“Remarkably well, considering I just had my own son arrested for trying to kidnap me.”
“The district attorney’s office wants to meet with you tomorrow morning. They’re extremely interested in the surveillance evidence, particularly the recordings of Christina discussing her previous husbands.”
I sank into Harold’s favorite armchair, suddenly feeling every one of my 70 years.
“Do they think she actually murdered those men?”
“The Phoenix and Denver police departments are reopening both investigations. With what we recorded tonight, plus the financial patterns we’ve documented, they have enough to build solid cases. And David—”
James paused.
“Mrs. Thompson, I have to be honest with you. David’s cooperation could significantly reduce his sentence. If he testifies against Christina and Marcus, provides information about the gambling operation—”
“You’re asking if I want my son to betray his wife to save himself.”
“I’m telling you, it’s an option. The choice is entirely his.”
I looked at the family photos on my mantle, pictures of birthday parties and Christmas mornings when David had been my sweet, imperfect boy who brought me dandelions and called them flowers.
“Mr. Rodriguez, what would you do if David were your son?”
“I’d want him to tell the truth about everything, regardless of the consequences. But I’m not his mother.”
After hanging up, I wandered through my house, seeing it with new eyes. This was my sanctuary, my refuge, and my family had tried to turn it into a crime scene, but they had failed, and now it felt more truly mine than ever before.
The doorbell rang at 10:30, which was unusual for my quiet neighborhood. Through the peephole, I saw a woman I didn’t recognize, probably in her 30s, with red hair and worried eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Thompson? My name is Sarah Chen. I was married to Robert Chen before Christina was.”
The name hit me like ice water. Robert Chen, Christina’s first husband who died in a home invasion robbery. I opened the door, keeping the chain lock engaged.
“What do you want?”
“To warn you and to thank you.”
Her voice was shaky but determined.
“I saw the news about the arrests tonight. After six years, someone finally caught her.”
“Ms. Chen, it’s late and I’ve had a very long day.”
“Please, just five minutes. There are things about Christina you need to know, things that didn’t come out in the police reports.”
Against my better judgment, I unhooked the chain and let her in. Sarah Chen was younger than I’d expected, with the kind of fragile prettiness that men found appealing and other women found untrustworthy.
“Robert and I were married for three years before he died,” she began without preamble. “He was a good man, but he had weaknesses. Gambling was one of them.”
“The same pattern,” I murmured.
“Christina didn’t target Robert randomly. She worked at the casino where he played poker. She studied him for months before making her move. Learned his habits, his debts, his vulnerabilities.”
I poured two cups of coffee, my hands steadier than they had any right to be.
“How do you know all this?”
“Because I hired a private investigator after Robert died. The police closed the case quickly—too quickly. But something felt wrong about the whole situation.”
“What did you find?”
Sarah pulled out a folder from her purse, one that looked remarkably similar to the file James Rodriguez had shown me about Christina’s background.
“Robert didn’t gamble at just any casino. He played at places owned by the same organization that’s been pressuring your son, the same people Marcus Richardson works for.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
“You’re saying this is bigger than just Christina killing husbands for insurance money?”
“I’m saying Christina is a recruiter. She finds wealthy men with gambling problems, marries them, and then either they die mysteriously or they end up owing massive debts to people who collect payment in creative ways, and their families become targets for operations exactly like what happened to you tonight.”
Sarah’s hands were shaking as she opened her folder.
“Mrs. Thompson, I’ve been tracking Christina for six years. You’re not the first family member she’s tried to kidnap.”
She showed me newspaper clippings, police reports, missing persons cases. All of them involved elderly relatives of men who died or disappeared after marrying Christina or women like her.
“This is a network,” I realized. “An organized operation with connections to law enforcement, judges, insurance investigators. They’ve been operating for over a decade.”
I thought about Marcus’s threat as they led him away.
“My associates don’t accept failure gracefully.”
“Ms. Chen, are you telling me that arresting these three people tonight might have just painted a target on my back?”
“I’m telling you that you’ve just disrupted a very profitable operation. And the people running it have a reputation for making problems disappear permanently.”
I looked around my house, my sanctuary that suddenly felt much less secure.
“What do you suggest I do?”
Sarah Chen smiled grimly.
“Fight back all the way, but this time we fight back together.”
She pulled out another document, a list of names, addresses, and financial records.
“Mrs. Thompson, would you be interested in helping me destroy the entire network?”
I thought about David, sitting in a jail cell because he’d been stupid enough to trust a professional predator. I thought about the other families who’d lost loved ones to these people. I thought about Harold, who’d always said the best defense was a good offense.
“Ms. Chen. I think that’s exactly what I’d be interested in.”
Some games end when one side wins. Others just begin a bigger game. And I was just getting started.
Three weeks later, I sat in a federal courthouse watching Marcus Richardson and two of his associates get sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. Christina had already been sentenced to death for the murders of Robert Chen and Marcus Williams, plus conspiracy charges related to at least six other suspicious deaths. David got 12 years for his role in the kidnapping plot, but with cooperation credits for testifying against the entire network. He’d be eligible for parole in seven years. He’d written me letters from jail, letters I hadn’t opened yet. Maybe someday I would.
Sarah Chen sat beside me in the courtroom, along with families of eight other victims. What had started as my personal revenge had evolved into the largest organized crime bust in the state’s history.
“Mrs. Thompson.”
Detective Rodriguez approached as we left the courthouse.
“I wanted you to know that the FBI has officially closed the investigation into the Richardson organization. 23 arrests, 14 convictions so far, and they’ve recovered over $40 million in stolen assets.”
“Will the families get their money back?”
“Most of it. The federal restitution program will make sure everyone who lost money to these people gets compensated.”
I nodded, satisfied. Justice had been served, but more importantly, no other families would face what I’d faced that night in November.
Sarah Chen and I had become unlikely friends during the investigation. She was smart, determined, and had a talent for financial research that rivaled Harold’s business instincts. When she suggested we start a consulting firm helping families investigate suspicious deaths and financial fraud, it seemed like the natural next step.
“Sarah,” I said as we walked down the courthouse steps, “I’ve been thinking about our conversation last week. About the consulting firm, about the name. I think ‘Second Chances Investigation’ sounds perfect.”
She grinned.
“I like it. Very hopeful.”
“Hope is what we’re selling, isn’t it? Hope that the truth will come out, that justice will prevail, that people can rebuild their lives after betrayal.”
Six months later, I stood in the office space we’d rented downtown, watching Sarah interview a potential client whose husband had died under suspicious circumstances. Our success rate was remarkable. 80% of cases resulted in criminal charges, and we’d recovered over $15 million for our clients.
My phone rang. The caller ID showed “David Thompson, State Correctional Facility.” I’d been expecting this call for months. I accepted the charges.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, David.”
“I’ve been hoping you’d visit.”
I looked around our office at the wall of solved cases and grateful letters from families we’d helped.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Mom, I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know what I did was unforgivable, but I want you to know that not a day goes by that I don’t think about what we tried to do to you.”
“David, are you calling to apologize or to ask for something?”
There was a long pause.
“To warn you. Marcus had connections we didn’t know about. People who might still be out there, people who might blame you for what happened to their operation.”
“Are you telling me I’m still in danger?”
“I’m telling you to be careful. Some of the people Marcus worked with don’t believe in letting things go.”
After hanging up, I realized I wasn’t afraid. If someone wanted to come after me, they’d find I was no longer the naive widow who trusted family members with her life.
Sarah looked up from her client meeting.
“Everything okay?”
“David thinks I might still have enemies from the Richardson network.”
“What do you think?”
I looked at the security system we’d installed, the panic buttons hidden throughout the office, and the off-duty police officer who worked as our security consultant.
“I think anyone who wants to threaten Margaret Thompson these days had better come prepared for a fight.”
Sarah laughed.
“You know, when I first met you that night, I thought you were just a lucky old lady who’d outsmarted some criminals. And now—now I think you’re the scariest 70-year-old woman in America. And I’m glad you’re on my side.”
That evening, I drove home to my house, which was now equipped with the kind of security system that would make Fort Knox jealous. I cooked dinner for one, watched the evening news, and went to bed at my usual time. But unlike the old Margaret Thompson, I slept with a loaded pistol in my nightstand drawer and a direct line to James Rodriguez programmed into my phone.
I’d learned the most important lesson life can teach. Trust carefully, love wisely, and never underestimate the power of a woman who’s tired of being underestimated. David had been right about one thing. Rich old people could be easy targets. But this particular rich old lady had decided to become something else entirely: the hunter instead of the hunted. And if anyone wanted to test that theory, they were welcome to try.
