I Suspected My Husband Was Getting Conned. Then I Did A Google Search That Left Us Stunned.

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30-03-2025

As a thriller writer, I've spent countless hours dissecting the psychology of con artists — their manipulative charm, weaponized trust and ability to exploit vulnerabilities. Crime has fascinated me since childhood, not just for the acts themselves, but for the minds behind them. I spent years studying these behaviors, convinced that understanding their tactics would protect me and those I love.
That illusion crumbled when the person closest to me — my husband — was conned.
While crafting fictional schemes for my fourth co-written novel, 'Trust Issues,' I immersed myself in fraudsters' tactics to manipulate their victims. I thought I knew their playbook inside and out. Yet, even as I meticulously wove the story of a silver-tongued stepfather who leaves a family shattered, my husband and I unknowingly fell prey to a real-life con.
***
My husband, Brian, ran a successful connected fitness company for a decade. When gyms reopened after the pandemic, his business never fully recovered. As he worked tirelessly to keep things afloat, he began exploring options to raise capital for expansion.
At the same time, I was sidelined with hyperemesis gravidarum during my pregnancy with our son. I was so sick that just moving left me violently ill, let alone contributing to the household or working. Everything fell on Brian — he cooked, cleaned, managed his struggling business, and made daily trips for my anti-nausea medicine and to Dairy Queen for Blizzards, the only thing I could keep down for eight months.
It was a perfect storm of exhaustion, uncertainty and relentless stress.
Amid this chaos, the con artist made his move, claiming access to significant funding for small businesses. His name was so generic that a quick Google search yielded millions of results — think Joe Smith or Mike Jones. Yet, his LinkedIn profile showcased an impressive resume and a slew of glowing endorsements. For the sake of this essay, I'll call our villain John Crooks.
At first, my husband was skeptical. Something about Crooks' demeanor and pitch felt off, but out of politeness, he agreed to a few meetings before deciding to walk away.
Over a year later, with our infant son at home, the pressures of running a struggling business while adapting to fatherhood weighed heavily on Brian. His efforts to raise funds for expansion were an uphill battle, fraught with opportunists, bait-and-switch tactics, and marketers in sheep's clothing. He carried the immense burden of keeping his beloved company afloat while coparenting with a partner navigating postpartum anxiety.
That's when John Crooks resurfaced. This time, he struck a much deeper chord, sharing heartfelt stories of fatherhood and even directing Brian to his Instagram account, filled with photos of him and his disabled son. He expertly played the role of a trusted peer and empathetic friend who seemed to understand the sleepless nights and relentless challenges my husband was facing.
***
One of the ways Brian and I differ most is in our worldview when it comes to people and their intentions. I don't generally trust people until I've seen a long pattern of trustworthy behavior. Brian, on the other hand, believes in the good in all people. As a decades-long boxing coach, inventor and entrepreneur, he maintains eternal optimism; he sees everyone's hidden potential and inherent goodness — especially those who seem to value family. For him, being a parent or prioritizing one's family are hallmarks of a pure-hearted person.
Over time, we've tempered each other's perspectives. My husband's enduring belief in people's potential has challenged my inclination toward skepticism, encouraging me to see the good in others more often. At the same time, running multiple startups and dealing with unscrupulous customers, investors and vendors has added nuance to my husband's view — he certainly isn't naive anymore. Meanwhile, my work in book publishing with authors — from true crime writers to psychologists, law enforcement and politicians (not to mention a few hair-raising run-ins in the Manhattan dating scene before meeting Brian) — has reinforced my cautious stance.
Together, we've found a balance — a sort of cautious optimism about the world. Becoming parents has both challenged and reinforced that equilibrium. We want to believe in others' virtues for the sake of our child, but certain experiences have made it harder to ignore the realities of deception and manipulation.
Looking back, it's clear how calculated John Crooks' return was. He reached out under the guise of a casual catch-up, and Brian — appreciative of the gesture — agreed to connect. Crooks' timing was impeccable. He sensed my husband's vulnerability: the strain of running a struggling business, adapting to fatherhood and the weight of being a provider.
Crooks skillfully commiserated with Brian, empathizing over sleepless nights, the stress of the startup world, and the constant pressures of balancing family and ambition. He presented himself as a kindred spirit who truly understood Brian's challenges, thereby building a genuine bond. Like any skilled con, he tapped into Brian's deepest pressures and values with unsettling precision.
Crooks promised millions but demanded an urgent investment package by the end of Q4. The upfront money he requested was small compared to his promises, so the risk seemed reasonable. This tactic is a hallmark of many cons: making the initial ask appear so modest that it feels foolish not to take the chance. Brian paid the nominal upfront fee, rationalizing it as a calculated risk for the potential reward. The contract even included a clause promising a full refund if the investment goal wasn't met. It sounded logical enough, even as I immersed myself in writing my novel and crafting the chaos left in the wake of a fictional con artist's schemes.
Then, just as everything neared a critical point, Crooks disappeared.
We debated whether the radio silence was a legitimate delay or the hallmark of a scammer: disappearing the moment their mark begins to suspect the truth. Drawing from my research, I explained to Brian why this tactic was so effective.
'If he's a con artist, he'll send out some kind of missive soon—claiming a family emergency or hospitalization. It's a classic move,' I explained. 'They go dark just long enough for you to panic, then reappear with a sob story designed to explain their absence and elicit sympathy. It stalls you from contacting authorities or canceling payments, while reinforcing their trustworthiness.'
Sure enough, like clockwork, an email arrived. It was a mass BCC message claiming he was in the hospital with a life-threatening bacterial infection, unable to respond and on the verge of death. To make the story even more convincing, he attached a gruesome photo of his cellulitis-ravaged face.
I meticulously cross-referenced the photo with his Instagram account, analyzing for inconsistencies. The facial infection in the email appeared severe, but a faint scar in the same region of his mouth and cheek in a photo taken weeks earlier suggested the image he was using as 'proof' had been taken much earlier. Who knows how often he'd recycled this photo as a getaway tactic?
I started googling every variation of Crooks' name paired with synonyms for 'scammer.' I subscribed to a background check service and uncovered numerous aliases and reports of passing bad checks and faulty business practices. Meanwhile, Brian took a different approach. He paused, taking deep breaths as he reflected on what Crooks had claimed in the email.
'If this is true,' he said, 'then this person is going through something unimaginable. He is suffering.' He didn't want to assume the worst.
I remained unconvinced and kept digging through the digital trail. Then, buried on the 10th page of Google, I found it: JOHNCROOKSISACONMAN.com.
The realization was undeniable — we'd been conned.
Another of Crooks' victims, someone who had 'invested' 10 times what Brian had, created the site. It featured photos, screenshots of correspondence and dozens of comments from others who had also fallen prey to him. His entire playbook was laid bare, repeated in painful details in their stories. And the accusations didn't end with fraud. They revealed a far darker picture: drug abuse, domestic violence and child neglect.
At first, Brian was silent. Finally, he exhaled a shaky breath and muttered, 'I should've known.'
The shame followed quickly. I tried to reassure him, but nothing I said could quiet the storm inside. Then came the grief. The vision of saving and expanding his company was gone, and the hope he'd carried for months disappeared.
'It's not just the money,' Brian said, staring at the ceiling. 'It's everything — the time, the energy, the belief that I was finally getting somewhere.'
He was right. Con artists don't just steal money; they steal confidence, trust, and hope.
With a sleepless infant, the timing of the con couldn't have been worse. Parenthood was already all-consuming, and this added stress tested us in ways we hadn't anticipated. Yet, it also forced us to lean on each other, communicating more openly as we navigated the chaos of raising a tiny human. Another monumental parental responsibility added to the pile: How do we raise our son to be the kind of person who would never intentionally harm someone else?
***
As we uncovered the full scope of Crooks' deception, we turned to platforms like LinkedIn for accountability, only to discover how deeply flawed the system is for victims seeking justice.
When Brian reported Crooks' profile, he received a canned response: Since the scam hadn't been perpetrated directly on their platform, they weren't liable and saw no cause to remove Crooks' account. His profile remains active to this day, a reminder of the frustrating gaps in the safeguards against fraud.
That loss of trust became even more pronounced when we realized how staggeringly difficult it is for victims of financial scams to seek justice. Federal organizations like the FBI or SEC rarely pursue cases unless the amounts stolen reach millions or involve high-profile Ponzi schemes. For smaller-scale scams, like ours, victims are left grappling with emotional fallout and systemic failures simultaneously.
The internet has only made this problem worse. Scammers can operate from anywhere in the world, making them nearly impossible to track, let alone prosecute. Platforms that scammers exploit to build credibility and connect with victims offer little recourse when the crimes occur outside their explicit jurisdiction.
This leaves victims grappling not only with the emotional weight of betrayal but also with systemic barriers to accountability. It's a sobering reality: The systems meant to protect us are ill-equipped to address the scale and sophistication of modern cons. Law enforcement is often unable to act when perpetrators disappear without a trace, leaving victims with no recourse but to fend for themselves.
In 'Trust Issues,' the characters face a strikingly similar dilemma. When the con man vanishes, the family has no choice but to take matters into their own hands, piecing together the lies he left behind to pursue their own form of justice. Writing those scenes, I imagined the frustration and helplessness of people abandoned by the systems meant to protect them, but experiencing it firsthand added a visceral layer to that understanding. The parallels became unavoidable: the search for accountability, the anger at a justice system that often lets the worst offenders slip through the cracks and the hard truth that sometimes the only way forward is to act independently. Life, like fiction, rarely wraps things up neatly.
***
After some processing time, Brian confronted Crooks in one last email — not with anger, but with something unexpected: grace. It wasn't words of forgiveness, but it carried a quiet dignity that surprised me. While I was still simmering with anger, plotting ways to take this man down for what he'd done to us — and to the many others now sharing their own stories of being deceived — my husband had found a way to move forward without letting the con define him.
Brian's email was met with silence. The last message he'd received from Crooks was the mass email claiming he was near death. However, Brian knew Crooks was alive and well. One of Crooks' next potential marks had seen Brian's LinkedIn post and reached out to share her own experience. She was actively corresponding with Crooks at the time but, after hearing Brian's story and connecting with others who had fallen victim to the scheme, she cut ties with him before it was too late.
***
In fiction, cons follow a tidy narrative arc that neatly builds to a satisfying climax. In reality, betrayal is messy and disorienting and rarely offers such resolution. Living through a con taught me what research couldn't: Betrayal leaves deep scars and an unpredictable path to healing. It's not just about the money or assets lost — it's about losing trust in yourself, others and even the systems meant to protect you.
Yet even in the aftermath, there is resilience — the capacity to rebuild, extend grace and slowly regain trust. Fragile as it may be, trust remains the foundation of hope, and hope is where healing begins.
After Brian shared his experience, dozens of entrepreneurs reached out with their stories of being scammed. Their support and shared experiences inspired him to channel his pain into purpose: He's now exploring ways to create a platform that connects small-business owners and combats fraudsters.
While I spin fictional tales of revenge on fraudsters, my husband develops real-world solutions to stop them.
Together, we've forged a way forward, balancing hope with hard-earned caution — a shared understanding born from navigating trust issues, both in the world around us and in the beautifully messy adventure of marriage and parenthood.
Elizabeth McCullough Keenan is one half of an internationally bestselling writing duo with Greg Wands. Together, they are internationally acclaimed novelists whose work has been featured in Entertainment Weekly, BuzzFeed, PopSugar and numerous other outlets. They are also the cocreators and cohosts of 'Imposter Hour with Liz and Greg,' a podcast that delves into the imposter syndrome creatives face and its impact on their lives and work. A publishing veteran with over two decades of experience, Elizabeth lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and son. For more on 'Trust Issues,' head here.