If you don’t like living with us, feel free to leave,” Jennifer said, standing in my kitchen like she owned the place.

10 minutes later, she was screaming for the police, claiming I’d lost my mind.

What she didn’t expect was that I’d been recording our conversation the entire time.

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Let me tell you how I ended up packing my daughter-in-law’s belongings while she called 911 on me.

It started 8 months ago when my son Daniel lost his job at the accounting firm.

Just temporarily, Mom, he’d said, showing up at my door with Jennifer in their two suitcases.

Until I get back on my feet.

I’m Margaret Walsh, 67 years old and apparently naive enough to believe that temporarily meant what it used to mean.

My husband, Robert, left me this beautiful four-bedroom house in Maple Heights when he passed two years ago, along with a comfortable retirement that I’d earned through 40 years of teaching high school English.

What I didn’t realize was that I just invited two parasites into my home.

Mom, you’re being ridiculous, Daniel had said that Tuesday morning when I suggested maybe 8 months was long enough for a temporary stay.

Jennifer and I contribute to this household.

contribute.

That’s rich.

Considering they’d paid exactly 0 in rent, utilities, or groceries since moving in, Jennifer worked part-time at a salon and spent most of her income on designer coffee and online shopping.

Daniel had supposedly been job hunting, though his hunting grounds seemed to be limited to the couch and my refrigerator.

We do the dishes sometimes, Jennifer added, not looking up from her phone where she was scrolling through vacation photos from the trip to Cancun they’ taken with my credit card without asking.

How generous of you, I said.

Even I could hear the acid in my voice.

That’s when Jennifer looked up, her eyes cold as winter.

Margaret, if you don’t like living with us, you’re free to leave anytime.

The audacity took my breath away.

in my own house, my own kitchen, standing next to the refrigerator I’d bought and paid for, eating food I’d purchased with my pension.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly.

“You heard me.

Nobody’s forcing you to stay here if we’re such a burden.”

Daniel shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

“My own son,” watching his wife kick his mother out of her own home.

That’s when something snapped inside me.

The old Margaret would have apologized, maybe even started packing her own bags.

But this Margaret had been pushed too far.

You know what, Jennifer?

You’re absolutely right.

I walked upstairs to the guest room where they’d been sleeping and pulled their largest suitcase from the closet.

Jennifer followed me, probably expecting to see me fold my clothes into it.

Instead, I started tossing her things inside.

Her expensive workout clothes that had never seen a gym.

The jewelry she’d bought with money they didn’t have.

The designer handbags cluttering my dresser.

What are you doing?

she shrieked.

“Packing,” I said calmly, adding Daniel’s collection of gaming equipment to the pile.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?

Not our stuff.”

“Your stuff?”

I paused, holding one of her ridiculously overpriced sweaters.

“Oh, honey, I’m not the one who needs to leave.

This is my house.

My name is on the deed.”

Her face went white, then red, then purple.

She pulled out her phone and started dialing frantically.

Yes, I need police and an ambulance, she said, her voice suddenly shaky and tearful.

My mother-in-law is having some kind of breakdown.

She’s acting completely erratic, and I’m scared for everyone’s safety.

Mother-in-law.

Since when was I family?

She’s threatening us and packing our belongings.

I think she might be having a psychotic episode.

I kept packing, amazed at how calm I felt.

Let her call whoever she wanted.

This was still my house.

What I didn’t know was that Jennifer had been planning this moment for months.

7 minutes after Jennifer’s dramatic phone call, my doorbell rang.

Through the window, I could see two police officers and a paramedic standing on my porch.

Behind them was a black sedan I didn’t recognize.

Mrs. Walsh.

The older officer was polite but cautious.

We received a call about a disturbance.

Please come in, I said, stepping aside, though I’m not sure what disturbance they’re referring to.

Jennifer appeared at the top of the stairs.

Her face stre with what looked like genuine tears.

Officers, thank God you’re here.

She just started throwing our things around, shouting about how we don’t belong here.

I’ve never seen her like this.

The younger officer looked between us.

Ma’am, is this your residence?

Yes, it is.

I’ve lived here for 32 years.

And you, miss?

I’m Jennifer Walsh, Daniel’s wife.

Daniel is Margaret’s son.

We’ve been staying here to help take care of her since her husband died.

Help take care of me?

I almost laughed.

The woman who couldn’t remember to flush the toilet was taking care of me.

Mrs. Walsh, the older officer said gently.

Your daughter-in-law says you were packing their belongings and asked them to leave.

Can you tell us what happened?

Certainly.

Jennifer told me that if I didn’t like living with them, I was free to leave.

Since this is my house, I suggested they might be the ones who should leave instead.

The paramedic stepped forward.

He was young, probably fresh out of training.

Mrs. Walsh, I’m going to ask you a few questions just to make sure you’re feeling okay.

Can you tell me what day it is?

Tuesday, October 15th.

It’s 2:30 in the afternoon, and I’m feeling perfectly fine, thank you.

Do you know who the president is?

I rattled off the current political information, my address, my social security number, and even recited the opening lines of Hamlet for good measure.

The paramedic looked confused.

“She seems completely lucid,” he said to the officers.

That’s when the man from the black sedan appeared.

He was tall, silver-haired, and wore an expensive suit that screamed private practice.

“Officers, I’m Dr. Bradley Cooper.

I’m a psychiatrist, and Mrs. Walsh has been one of my patients.”

I stared at him.

“I beg your pardon.

I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Margaret,” Dr. Cooper said in that condescending tone medical professionals use on difficult elderly patients.

You came to see me last month about your memory issues and paranoid thoughts about your family.

That’s impossible.

I don’t have memory issues and I certainly don’t have paranoid thoughts.

Jennifer descended the stairs slowly, her tears flowing freely now.

Mom, you don’t remember?

You’ve been so confused lately.

Last week you accused Daniel and me of stealing your credit cards because you did steal my credit cards.

The words came out louder than I intended and I saw the officers exchange glances.

Dr. Cooper nodded sagely.

This kind of angry denial is very common with dementia patients.

They often accuse family members of theft or conspiracy.

I do not have dementia.

Mrs. Walsh, the older officer said carefully.

Would you mind if we took a look around just to make sure everything’s okay?

Of course.

I led them through my pristine house.

The living room where Jennifer’s magazines were scattered across my coffee table.

The kitchen where their dirty dishes sat in my sink.

My home office where Daniel had been using my computer to play online poker.

In the guest room, their belongings were indeed scattered across the floor where I’d been packing them.

To someone who didn’t know the context, it might have looked like the actions of someone having a breakdown.

Dr. Cooper examined the scene with theatrical concern.

Margaret, can you explain why you were packing these items?

Because Jennifer told me if I didn’t like living with them.

I could leave.

I was simply taking her advice and helping them pack.

But these aren’t your belongings to pack, he said gently.

They’re in my house.

They’ve been here 8 months without paying rent.

Jennifer sobbed louder.

She’s been getting more and more agitated about money.

Yesterday, she accused us of not contributing, even though we pay for groceries all the time.

I wanted to ask her to produce a single receipt, but something in Dr. Cooper’s eyes warned me that anything I said would be used as evidence of my deteriorating mental state.

The realization hit me like a physical blow.

This wasn’t a spontaneous breakdown response.

This was planned.

Mrs. Walsh, we’d like you to come with us to the hospital.

Dr. Cooper said, his voice dripping with false compassion.

Just for observation, a few tests to make sure you’re okay.

And if I refuse, well, the older officer interjected, we can’t force you, but Dr. Cooper here has some concerns about your mental state.

I looked around my living room at the assembled cast of my apparent breakdown.

Jennifer clutching tissues.

Daniel hovering uselessly in the background.

Two cops who clearly wanted to be anywhere else.

a paramedic checking his watch and a psychiatrist I’d never met claiming to be my doctor.

You know what?

I’ll go to the hospital, but I want to call my attorney first.

Margaret, Jennifer said quickly.

You don’t need an attorney.

We’re family.

We just want you to get better.

Family, right?

The same family that had been living in my house rentree while telling me I could leave if I didn’t like it.

I picked up my phone and dialed Margaret Chen, my lawyer who’d handled Robert’s estate.

She answered on the second ring.

Margaret, it’s Maggie Walsh.

I need you to meet me at Maple Heights General.

Apparently, I’m having a psychiatric evaluation.

What?

Maggie, what’s going on?

I’ll explain when you get there.

I hung up before anyone could object.

Dr. Cooper frowned.

Mrs. Walsh, involving lawyers at this stage might complicate things unnecessarily.

Doctor, since I’ve never met you before and you’re not actually my physician, I think having legal representation is perfectly reasonable.

The younger cop looked confused.

Wait, if she’s never met you, how are you her doctor?

Dr. Cooper’s smooth facade cracked slightly.

Mrs. Walsh is clearly confused about our previous sessions.

When exactly did these sessions take place?

I asked sweetly.

Patient confidentiality prevents me from, “Oh, you can discuss my supposed memory issues and paranoid thoughts in front of the police, but you can’t tell me when I supposedly visited your office.”

Jennifer stepped forward quickly.

Mom, you don’t remember because of the confusion.

That’s why, doctor Cooper is here to help.

Jennifer, in 30 years of marriage to your father-in-law, I never once had memory issues.

I balanced our checkbook, managed my classroom of 30 teenagers, and could tell you every birthday and anniversary in the family.

But somehow, in the 8 months since you moved in, I’ve developed sudden onset dementia.

The older officer was starting to look skeptical.

“Dr. Cooper, do you have documentation of your previous treatment of Mrs. Walsh?”

“The records are at my office,” he said stiffly.

“Which office?” I asked.

“What’s your practice called?

Where is it located?”

Another crack in the facade.

I don’t think this hostile interrogation is helpful for the patients mental state.

Hostile interrogation?

I laughed.

Officer, I’m asking a man who claims to be my doctor to provide basic information about his practice.

If that’s hostile, then I guess I really am losing my mind.

Jennifer was looking nervous now, glancing between Dr. Cooper and the police officers.

Can we just get her to the hospital?

She clearly needs help.

That’s when Margaret Chen arrived.

She swept through my front door like an avenging angel in a navy blue suit, her briefcase in one hand and her phone in the other.

Which one of you is Dr. Cooper?

She asked without preamble.

The silver-haired man stepped forward.

I am.

And you are?

Margaret Chen, Mrs. Walsh’s attorney.

I just called the state medical board.

Funny thing about Dr. Bradley Cooper.

He had his license suspended 6 months ago for participating in fraudulent psychiatric holds.

The room went dead silent.

That’s impossible, Jennifer whispered.

Oh, it’s very possible.

Dr. Cooper here has quite the reputation for helping families commit elderly relatives against their will, usually for a substantial fee.

Dr. Cooper was already backing toward the door.

There’s been some misunderstanding.

The only misunderstanding, Margaret Chen said coldly, is thinking you could run this scam in my client’s house.

As the fake doctor fled and the police officers started asking Jennifer very pointed questions, I realized this was just the beginning.

The next morning, I sat in Margaret Chen’s office drinking coffee from real China cups while she spread documents across her mahogany desk.

After the police had taken statements and Dr. Cooper had vanished into the night.

Jennifer and Daniel had retreated to the guest room, presumably to plan their next move.

How long has this been building?

Margaret asked, adjusting her reading glasses.

8 months officially, though I think Jennifer’s been sizing up my house since the day she met Daniel.

I took a sip of coffee.

She always had an opinion about how I could better utilize my space.

Margaret nodded.

The fake psychiatric hold is a sophisticated scam.

Dr. Cooper, his real name is Brian Kellerman, by the way, has been running this operation in three different states.

How does it work?

Family member calls claiming elderly relative is having a breakdown.

Kellerman arrives, poses as the person’s doctor, convinces police the person needs emergency psychiatric hold.

Once the person is committed, the family has 72 hours to initiate guardianship proceedings.

The implications hit me like ice water.

They were trying to have me declared incompetent.

Exactly.

Your daughter-in-law would become your legal guardian with control over your assets, your house, your medical decisions, everything.

I thought about Jennifer’s confident demeanor yesterday.

The way she’d seemed so prepared with her tears and her story about my memory issues.

This wasn’t spontaneous.

She’s been planning this.

Margaret pulled out another file.

I did some research on Jennifer Walsh last night.

Fascinating woman.

Before she married your son, she was Jennifer Parker, then Jennifer Martinez, then Jennifer Thompson.

Three marriages, three elderly spouses.

Her first husband was 72, left her his condo in Florida when he died of a sudden heart attack.

Second husband was 68, left her his investment portfolio after a convenient fall down the stairs.

Third husband was 75, signed over his assets to her just weeks before he was found dead in his pool.

My hands were shaking.

And now she’s married to my son.

Who’s 42 and completely healthy, but his mother?

Margaret let the sentence hang.

His mother is 67 with a paidoff house and a substantial retirement account.

Bingo.

Daniel might not even know what Jennifer’s really planning.

Some of these women are very skilled at manipulation.

I stood up and walked to Margaret’s window, looking out at the busy street below.

normal people going about their normal lives unaware that predators like Jennifer existed.

What do we do?

First, we document everything.

I want you to install security cameras in your house today.

Record every conversation, every interaction.

Second, we contact the other jurisdictions where Jennifer operated.

Build a pattern of behavior.

And third, Margaret smiled grimly.

Third, we give Jennifer Walsh exactly what she deserves.

That afternoon, I returned home to find Jennifer in my kitchen making herself a sandwich.

She looked up when I entered, her expression carefully neutral.

How are you feeling today? Mom.

Mom. She’d never called me that before yesterday.

I’m feeling quite well, thank you. Although I am curious about something.

What’s that?

She was being so careful, so concerned. The perfect daughter-in-law tending to her confused mother-in-law.

I was wondering about your previous marriages.

Jennifer’s hand froze halfway to the mustard jar.

My what?

Your previous husbands.

I met the most interesting police detective today. He had some fascinating stories about recent widow Jennifer Parker, Jennifer Martinez, and Jennifer Thompson.

The color drained from her face.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Of course you don’t.

I opened my purse and pulled out the small recording device Margaret had given me.

Just like you don’t know Dr. Cooper’s real name is Brian Kellerman and he’s a convicted fraud.

Jennifer stared at the device like it was a snake.

You can’t record me without my permission.

Actually, in a one-party consent state like ours, I can record any conversation I’m participating in, especially in my own house.

She was backing toward the door now, her mask of concern completely gone.

Daniel, my son appeared from the living room, remote control still in his hand.

What’s wrong?

Your mother is recording us. She’s completely paranoid.

Daniel looked confused.

Mom, why are you recording Jennifer?

Because your wife has been married three times before you, and all three of her previous husbands are dead.

The remote control clattered to the floor. Daniel stood frozen in my living room, staring at Jennifer like he’d never seen her before.

“That’s not true,” he said finally, but his voice lacked conviction.

Show him the documents, Margaret, I said into my phone, which was connected to a conference call with my attorney.

Margaret’s voice came through the speaker clearly.

Daniel, I’m emailing you the death certificates and marriage licenses right now.

Your wife was married to Robert Parker in 2018. He died 6 months later, then to Carlos Martinez in 2019. He died 8 months after the wedding, then to William Thompson in 2021, dead in four months.

Jennifer finally found her voice.

Those were coincidences. I can’t help it if I attracted older men who had health problems.

Older men? I repeated. Robert Parker was 72. Carlos Martinez was 68. William Thompson was 75.

And now you’re married to my 42-year-old son.

That’s quite a pattern, Jennifer.

Daniel was scrolling through his phone, reading the documents Margaret had sent. His face grew paler with each swipe.

Jennifer, he said quietly. You told me you’d only been married once before. To a man who died in a car accident.

I didn’t want you to think I was unlucky in love, she said, trying to recapture her sweet, vulnerable tone. People judge widows, especially young widows.

Young. Jennifer was 39 years old and looked every day of it under her carefully applied makeup.

What about Dr. Cooper? Daniel asked. the man who was here yesterday claiming to be mom’s psychiatrist.

Jennifer’s eyes darted between us.

I don’t know anything about him. The police must have called him.

Margaret’s voice cut through the speaker.

Actually, Jennifer, we have phone records showing three calls from your cell phone to Brian Kellerman’s number over the past 2 weeks.

The longest call was 47 minutes.

That’s impossible.

Would you like me to read you the exact times and durations?

Jennifer was backing toward the staircase now.

Daniel, you have to believe me. Your mother is trying to turn you against me.

Turn him against you? I laughed.

Jennifer, you tried to have me committed to a psychiatric facility yesterday. You called a fake doctor to my house and told the police I was having a breakdown.

I don’t need to turn anyone against you. You’re doing a fine job of that yourself.

Daniel was staring at his phone screen.

Jennifer, this says Robert Parker changed his will 2 weeks before he died. He left everything to you instead of his children.

He loved me. His children were horrible to him.

And Carlos Martinez signed over power of attorney to you the day before he fell down the stairs.

He was getting forgetful. I was helping him manage his affairs.

William Thompson transferred his bank accounts to your name 3 days before he drowned in his pool.

Jennifer’s voice was getting higher, more desperate.

These are all coincidences. You’re making it sound like I killed them.

The room went silent.

She’d said the quiet part out loud.

Daniel set his phone down slowly.

Jennifer, did you kill those men?

Of course not. I loved them. They were good to me. It’s not my fault they died.

But it is convenient, I said quietly. That they all died right after giving you access to their assets.

Margaret’s voice came through the phone again.

Jennifer, I think you should know that the police departments in Miami, Phoenix, and Portland are very interested in reopening those three cases, especially since they’ve discovered your connection to Brian Kellerman.

Jennifer looked trapped, cornered. But I’d learned yesterday that cornered animals are the most dangerous.

You know what? She said, her voice suddenly calm. Fine. You want to know the truth?

Those old men were pathetic, lonely, desperate, eager to throw money at any woman who paid attention to them.

They got exactly what they paid for.

Daniel took a step back from her.

Jennifer, what are you saying?

I’m saying your mother is right. I married old, rich men who died conveniently and left me their money. And yes, I was planning to do the same thing to her.

The casual confession hit the room like a bomb.

But here’s what your precious mother doesn’t understand.

Jennifer continued, her mask completely off now.

I don’t need Daniel anymore. I already transferred half her retirement account to my personal account last month.

My blood went cold.

What?

Jennifer smiled for the first time since yesterday.

Amazing what you can accomplish with someone’s signature when you bring them their morning coffee every day.

A little something in the coffee to make them drowsy. A few documents to sign. And voila, she’d been drugging me.

“You’ve been drugging me,” I said, the pieces finally clicking into place.

The unexplained fatigue I’d been experiencing. The mornings when I’d wake up groggy with no memory of the previous evening.

The documents I’d supposedly signed but couldn’t remember.

Jennifer’s smile was cold and satisfied.

Just a little something to help you sleep better. You seemed so stressed about having house guests.

Daniel was backing away from her. Horror written across his face.

Jennifer, you drugged my mother.

Oh, don’t act so shocked, Dany. You were happy enough to spend the money I transferred from her accounts.

That vacation to Cancun, the new gaming equipment, the designer clothes I bought you.

Where did you think the money was coming from?

I thought you were working.

I thought your salon job paid minimum wage plus tips.

Really, Daniel? You’re even more naive than your mother.

Margaret’s voice crackled through the phone speaker.

Jennifer, I need you to know that this entire conversation is being recorded and as of 10 minutes ago, the FBI has frozen all bank accounts associated with your social security number.

Jennifer’s confidence faltered.

You can’t do that.

Actually, when someone is suspected of serial elder fraud across multiple states, the federal government can do quite a lot.

In fact, Agent Sarah Mitchell should be arriving at the house any moment now.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

Through the window, I could see black SUVs lining my street.

“You set me up,” Jennifer whispered.

“No,” I said, standing up straighter than I had in months.

“I protected myself. There’s a difference.

The FBI agents were professional and efficient.”

Agent Mitchell, a woman about my age with steel gray hair and kind eyes, took Jennifer into custody while explaining her rights.

The irony wasn’t lost on me that Jennifer was being read the same rights she’d tried to strip away from me.

Mrs. Walsh, Agent Mitchell said after Jennifer had been taken away.

We’re going to need you to come to the field office tomorrow to give a full statement, but I want you to know how brave you were to come forward.

I didn’t come forward.

I was just trying to keep them from kicking me out of my own house.

Agent Mitchell smiled.

Sometimes the bravest thing we do is simply refuse to be victims.

After the agents left, Daniel and I sat in my living room in awkward silence.

He looked older somehow, smaller.

The man who’d watched his wife insult me in my own kitchen was gone, replaced by someone who was clearly questioning everything he thought he knew about his life.

“Mom,” he said finally.

I didn’t know about any of it. I swear to you, I had no idea what Jennifer was doing.

I studied his face, looking for the truth.

But you knew she was disrespectful to me. You heard her tell me to leave my own house.

And you said nothing.

He nodded miserably.

You’re right. I was weak.

I was so grateful that someone wanted to be with me after I lost my job. I didn’t want to rock the boat.

And now, now I realize I chose a woman who was planning to murder my mother over the son who let her get away with it.

He looked up at me with tears in his eyes.

Can you ever forgive me?

I reached over and took his hand.

Daniel, you’re my son. I love you, but you need to understand that respect isn’t optional. Not in my house, not in my life.

I understand. And mom, I’m going to find my own place. You deserve to have your house back.

I squeezed his hand.

One thing at a time.

First, we’re going to figure out how much money Jennifer stole and get it back.

Then, we’re going to make sure she never has the opportunity to hurt another family.

What I didn’t tell him was that I’d already decided what I was going to do with the money once we recovered it.

Jennifer Walsh thought she could pray on vulnerable seniors with impunity.

She was about to learn how wrong she was.

3 weeks after Jennifer’s arrest, I was sitting in Agent Mitchell’s office, staring at a number that made my head spin.

She stole $347,000 from you over 8 months, Agent Mitchell said, sliding the bank statements across her desk.

But here’s what’s interesting.

She only spent about 60,000 of it.

Where’s the rest?

That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Jennifer was part of a larger operation.

We think your case was just one piece of a much bigger puzzle.

I leaned back in the uncomfortable government issued chair.

How much bigger?

Agent Mitchell pulled out a thick file.

We’ve identified at least 15 other victims across six states.

All elderly, all targeted the same way.

Fake psychiatric holds, fraudulent power of attorney documents, forged signatures.

15 people like me, 15 people who weren’t as smart as you, she corrected.

Most of them are now in nursing homes, declared incompetent by courts, their assets controlled by loving family members who are actually part of this network.

The scope of it was staggering.

Jennifer was working with other people, Jennifer, Brian Kellerman, at least three other fake doctors, several corrupt lawyers, and what appears to be a placement coordinator who identifies targets.

Placement coordinator.

Agent Mitchell opened another file.

Someone who works in healthcare or senior services identifies wealthy elderly people who are isolated or vulnerable and passes their information to the team.

I thought about how easily Jennifer had walked into my life through Daniel.

How did they find me?

We’re still investigating that, but Mrs. Walsh, we need your help.

What kind of help?

The other victims can’t testify.

They’ve been declared mentally incompetent or they’re too scared or they’ve been convinced by their captors that they’re actually sick.

You’re the only victim who fought back successfully.

What are you asking me to do?

Agent Mitchell leaned forward.

Help us catch the rest of them.

There’s someone at the top of this operation we haven’t identified yet.

Someone who’s been running the scam for at least 5 years.

I thought about those 15 other people trapped in nursing homes.

Their families probably told they were getting the best care while their life savings disappeared into criminal accounts.

What would I need to do?

Act as bait?

The plan was elegant in its simplicity.

Agent Mitchell explained it over coffee in my kitchen 3 days later with Daniel listening in shocked silence.

They would leak information that I’d recovered my stolen money and was looking to invest it safely.

They’d monitor the phones and digital communications of everyone in Jennifer’s network who hadn’t been arrested yet.

The idea is that someone will approach you with a new investment opportunity or financial service.

Agent Mitchell said, “Someone trustworthy, probably recommended by a friend or through your church or community center.

And then, then we see how deep this rabbit hole goes.”

Daniel shook his head.

Mom, this sounds dangerous. What if something goes wrong?

I patted his hand.

Honey, something already went wrong.

Your wife tried to have me committed and steal my life savings.

At this point, danger is relative.

Agent Mitchell smiled.

Mrs. Walsh will be completely protected.

We’ll have agents nearby at all times, and she’ll be wearing recording equipment.

Plus, we think the approach will be subtle at first.

These people are patient.

They were right about that.

It took exactly 6 days.

I was at the grocery store Thursday morning when a woman approached me in the cereal aisle.

She was about my age, well-dressed, with the kind of professional appearance that screamed trustworthy.

Excuse me, she said with a warm smile.

Aren’t you Margaret Walsh?

I’m Helen Curtis.

I think our daughters went to high school together.

I didn’t recognize her, but I smiled politely.

Nice to meet you, Helen.

I hate to bother you, but I couldn’t help overhearing you talking to the pharmacist about managing your retirement funds.

I just went through something similar after my husband passed.

My radar immediately went up.

I hadn’t been talking to the pharmacist about my finances.

Oh, yes. And I found the most wonderful financial adviser.

He specializes in helping widows protect their assets from family members who might take advantage.

There it was, the hook delivered with perfect timing and false sympathy.

That’s very kind of you to mention, I said carefully.

Helen handed me a business card.

His name is Robert Davidson.

He’s helped so many of us ladies in similar situations.

Very discreet, very professional.

After she walked away, I immediately texted Agent Mitchell the details.

Her response came back quickly.

Perfect. We know Robert Davidson. He’s been on our radar for months.