At 19, I babysat Evan, whose mom, Rachel, was elegant but distant. She left at 7 p.m. for a gala, promising to return by midnight. When she didn’t, I called her—voicemail. By 3 a.m., news reported her missing, last seen in her green dress. I found her cracked phone in the bathroom, flashing missed calls. A man, Daniel, arrived, claiming familiarity, but seemed off. Rachel’s phone revealed a text:
“He knows. I’m going to tell the babysitter everything.” Daniel urged me to leave, but I took Evan and called the police. Rachel’s body was found in a car under Daniel’s name. Evan later whispered Rachel’s secret: a photo behind the fridge showed her bruised, with a powerful man—not Daniel. I gave it to detectives. Rachel’s homicide exposed corruption, but no names surfaced. Evan moved away. I never babysat again, haunted by Rachel’s trust in me.
