Chapter 3 - MEGAN COLLINS
Helen Ward entered my life through Dr. Hart.
She handled family law, but her first recommendation was not to file for divorce.
“Preserve facts before making every conflict permanent,” she said.
I appreciated that she did not confuse caution with reconciliation.
We requested Mark’s disclosure of childcare information through the temporary parenting case Maya’s agency initiated.
Mark hired an attorney.
His version changed.
Megan existed, he said.
He had met her through work.
She moved recently.
Diane only helped after Megan reduced availability.
The disconnected phone belonged to a prepaid plan Mark managed because Megan was “not good with technology.”
That explanation lasted forty-eight hours.
Then the actual Megan Collins appeared.
She was twenty-nine and worked in accounting at Mark’s company.
Maya found her through payroll records after Mark said they met at work.
Megan had babysat Emma exactly three times.
All three occurred fourteen months earlier.
The first was the café interview I remembered.
The second was one Friday evening when Mark and I attended a wedding.
The third was a Saturday afternoon.
She never watched Emma during weekdays.
She never received the thousands of dollars our bank statements showed going to:
M. COLLINS CHILDCARE.
She never owned the prepaid phone.
She never sent me texts.
When investigators showed her the messages, she began crying.
“That isn’t me.”
“Did Mark have permission to use your name?”
“No.”
“Did you know he represented you as Emma’s regular caregiver?”
“Absolutely not.”
Mark’s attorney stopped voluntary interviews after that.
The bank account receiving the childcare transfers was opened under a business name:
MC FAMILY SERVICES.
The account holder was not Megan.
It was Mark.
I stared at the statements in Helen’s office.
Every month, $2,600 left our household account.
We split childcare from joint income.
Half was effectively mine.
Some months we received dependent-care reimbursement through my clinic’s employee benefit plan.
Mark submitted invoices.
The invoices used Megan’s name.
Her stolen signature appeared at the bottom.
“What happened to the money?” I asked.
Helen pointed to the transfers.
Approximately forty percent went to Diane.
Twenty percent paid Mark’s personal credit card.
The rest moved into a savings account I did not know existed.
“You need a forensic accountant.”
“I need my husband to explain.”
“You may eventually get both.”
I called Mark with attorneys present.
“Why did you create fake sitter invoices?”
He said nothing for almost ten seconds.
“Megan stopped babysitting.”
“She never started.”
“I needed a caregiver.”
“You had one. Your mother.”
“Yes.”
“The person I explicitly said could not watch Emma alone.”
“Yes.”
“So you invented another woman.”
“I knew you wouldn’t approve Mom.”
“That is not a justification.”
“I’m not saying it is.”
“What did my childcare money pay for?”
“Mom’s groceries. Gas. Things for Emma.”
“And your credit card?”
Silence.
“Mark.”
“I was behind.”
“On what?”
“Everything.”
The answer surprised me.
Mark earned a solid salary.
We shared household expenses.
I made more through my pediatric occupational-therapy practice, but neither of us lived extravagantly.
“How were you behind?”
“I made some investments.”
“What investments?”
His attorney interrupted.
“We should defer financial questions until formal disclosure.”
Mark said:
“No. She deserves that part.”
His attorney looked irritated.
Mark continued.
“I lost money trading.”
“How much?”
“About eighty thousand.”
My throat tightened.
“When?”
“Over two years.”
“Before or after you invented Megan?”
“Before.”
The fake childcare reimbursements had begun partly to cover personal losses.
But stealing our childcare money did not require Emma to spend fourteen months with Diane.
There were licensed providers.
Daycare.
Real sitters.
My mother.
My sister.
Mark chose Diane.
“Why her?”
“She’s my mother.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“She wanted Emma.”
“That definitely isn’t enough.”
He looked toward the camera.
“She said she could teach her things you wouldn’t.”
There it was.
“Like what?”
“Respect. Patience. Not crying over everything.”
I felt my body go cold.
“How long have you known she hits children?”
Mark did not answer.
His attorney ended the call.
That evening, Jenna—Mark’s older sister—called me.
We had never been close.
May you like
Her first sentence was:
“Diane used to hit us over food too.”
