At 19, I used to babysit a little boy. His mom was super beautiful. She would leave the house at 7 p.m.
and return before midnight. One night, she didn’t return. I was worried; she didn’t answer my calls.
At 3 a.m., I turned on the TV – and froze when I saw her. I found out that she was on the news, listed as a missing person. They showed her photo, the same one framed in their hallway, and said she’d last been seen leaving a charity gala.
My hands started shaking. I checked the locks on every door twice and peeked through the windows. The little boy, Dorian, was fast asleep upstairs, hugging the same stuffed giraffe he took everywhere.
I didn’t know what to do. I had only been babysitting for her a few weeks. Her name was Mirela.
She had this classy, mysterious vibe—always dressed like she came out of a magazine, and she smelled like expensive perfume and fresh roses. But she never told me much about where she went in the evenings. I didn’t ask, and she didn’t share.
I called her phone again, even though I knew it was pointless. Straight to voicemail. I left a shaky message, saying I was still at the house and that Dorian was safe.
I didn’t know if I should call the cops or wait. A part of me hoped it was all a misunderstanding. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.
The next morning, there was still no word. I made Dorian breakfast and tried to act normal, but my heart was pounding the whole time. By 9 a.m., a knock at the door made me jump.
Two police officers stood there. They asked if I was the babysitter. I nodded, and they came in.
They looked around, asked a few questions, and gently told me they needed to take Dorian with them for now, since his mother was officially listed as missing. I packed a small bag for him and handed over his giraffe. He clung to my neck before leaving, not fully understanding what was happening.
I sat on the couch after they left, staring at the spot where Mirela usually tossed her keys. Everything felt wrong. For days, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept replaying every moment, trying to remember if she had said anything unusual. But there was nothing. No clues.
No warnings. Then, about a week later, I got a call from an unknown number. “Is this Cami?” the woman asked.
Her voice was soft but rushed. “Yes,” I said, suddenly alert. “It’s Mirela,” she whispered.
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