Chapter 1 - The Toast That Went Wrong
My Father And Brother Drugged My Wine At Thanksgiving Dinner to Steal My $8 Million Inheritance—So I Secretly Switched Goblets With Dad. Fifteen Minutes Later, He Collapsed Beside the Turkey, and My Brother Screamed the One Sentence That Exposed Grandpa's Murder Three Years Earlier...
My father smiled as he handed me a crystal goblet of poisoned wine.
My older brother smiled even wider.
And my mother, sitting across the Thanksgiving table, whispered four words that nearly stopped my heart.
"Please don't drink that."
My name is Miles Tolland. I'm thirty-seven years old, and on Thanksgiving night, my own father and brother tried to murder me for an inheritance I didn't even know existed.
They had rehearsed their plan.
They had selected the wine.
They had prepared legal documents to take control of my money before anyone even discovered my body.
What they hadn't planned for was the moment I switched my wineglass with my father's.
Or what happened fifteen minutes later.
The dining room of our family's waterfront mansion in Kennebunkport, Maine, looked like something from a luxury holiday magazine.
A twelve-foot Christmas tree glowed beside the marble fireplace. Silver candlesticks reflected in the polished mahogany table. An enormous roasted turkey sat surrounded by expensive china, crystal bowls, and enough food to feed twenty people.
There were only five of us.
My father, Conrad Tolland, sat at the head of the table.
My older brother, Reid, occupied the chair to his right, wearing a designer sweater and the smug expression of a man who had never earned anything he owned.
My mother, June, sat opposite me.
And Marshall Grady, our family's attorney, waited near the fireplace with a leather briefcase resting beside his chair.
Outside, a violent coastal storm battered the windows.
Inside, something far more dangerous was happening.
"Thirty-seven years old," my father announced, studying me over his reading glasses. "And you still haven't learned to appreciate what this family has provided."
I said nothing.
Reid laughed.
"He's too busy pretending he's better than us."
My father nodded approvingly.
"Well, tonight we're going to settle a few things."
He stood and approached the antique liquor cabinet.
I watched his reflection in the dark window.
He removed a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the cabinet, then took out two identical crystal goblets.
One for himself.
One for me.
His shoulders blocked my view for several seconds.
But the window showed enough.
His right hand moved toward his pocket.
Something small disappeared into one of the glasses.
My stomach tightened.
I had suspected what they intended for weeks.
Seeing it happen was different.
My father returned carrying both goblets.
He set one beside my plate.
The other he placed at his own setting.
"Your grandfather saved this bottle for a special occasion," he said.
I looked down.
A faint cloudy trace lingered inside the dark red wine.
Across the table, my mother's fingers tightened around her napkin.
"Conrad," she whispered. "Maybe we shouldn't—"
"June."
One word.
That was all it took to silence her.
My brother leaned forward.
"Come on, Miles. Dad's actually trying to be nice."
I looked at him.
His forehead was damp despite the cool room.
He couldn't stop glancing between my face and the wine.
"What's the occasion?" I asked.
Father smiled.
"Your future."
Marshall opened his briefcase.
"Your father has arranged a substantial restructuring of the family trust," he explained. "Once dinner is finished, we'll need several signatures."
"Interesting," I said.
My father raised his goblet.
"To the family fortune."
Reid lifted his water glass.
"To keeping everything where it belongs."
My mother didn't move.
I reached toward my wine.
Then deliberately knocked my silver fork off the table.
The sharp clatter made everyone look down.
"For heaven's sake!" my father snapped.
"Sorry."
I bent toward the floor.
As Reid laughed and my father turned toward him, my other hand moved across the table.
Two crystal stems.
Two identical glasses.
A single desperate exchange.
When I straightened, the goblet originally intended for me stood in front of my father.
And his untouched wine stood before me.
Neither man noticed.
But my mother did.
Her eyes widened.
Her gaze moved from my glass to my father's.
Then she covered her mouth.
"Now," my father growled, "can we finally behave like civilized adults?"
He lifted the goblet.
I lifted mine.
"To family," I said.
He drank.
I took a small sip from the other glass.
For one terrible second, everything seemed normal.
Then Reid smiled at me.
A satisfied, almost excited smile.
I knew exactly what he was waiting for.
I set my glass down.
"Before we sign anything," I said, "I'd like to ask Marshall a question."
The attorney straightened.
"Of course."
"Does the name August Tolland mean anything to you?"
My father's expression hardened.
"Your grandfather has been dead for three years. What does he have to do with tonight?"
"Quite a lot, actually."
I reached into my jacket and placed a folded document beside my dinner plate.
Reid's smile disappeared.
My father glanced at the document.
For the first time that evening, he looked uncertain.
"Where did you get that?"
"From someone who thought I deserved to know why Grandpa left me eight million dollars."
My mother made a strangled sound.
Reid pushed back his chair.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"And why," I continued, "my death would transfer every penny to Dad."
Silence.
Even the attorney stopped breathing for a moment.
My father placed his goblet on the table.
His voice dropped.
"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."
"Actually, I think I do."
He stood suddenly.
"Give me those papers."
I didn't move.
Then something strange happened.
My father's hand missed the edge of the table.
He blinked.
Grabbed his chair.
And swayed.
"Dad?" Reid asked.
Conrad opened his mouth, but his words came out thick and uneven.
He looked toward his half-empty wineglass.
Then toward mine.
Then at me.
I watched recognition spread across his face.
His eyes widened in absolute terror.
"You..." he whispered.
His knees buckled.
The goblet slipped from his fingers and shattered against the hardwood floor.
My mother screamed.
My brother stumbled backward.
And my father, the man who had controlled our family through fear for nearly forty years, collapsed beside the Thanksgiving turkey.
I had already sent an emergency message.
Now I pulled out my phone and called 911.
But before I could explain what had happened, my brother lunged across the table and grabbed my shirt.
"YOU SWITCHED THEM!" he screamed.
May you like
Then he shouted something that changed everything.
"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO DIE LIKE GRANDPA!".
