At 19, I used to babysit a little boy named Evan. His mom, Rachel, was one of those women who turned heads everywhere she went—sharp cheekbones, elegant posture, always perfectly put together even when she was running late. She was kind to me, but distant. Polite in a way that felt practiced.
She always left at 7 p.m. sharp and said she’d be back before midnight. I never asked where she went. She paid in cash, and generously.
That night felt ordinary. Evan ate his dinner, we played his favorite board game, then he fell asleep on the couch. I remember it was around 11:50 when I started packing up my things, expecting her any minute.
Midnight came and went.
I waited.
By 12:30, I called her. Straight to voicemail. I left a message. Then another. By 1 a.m., I was pacing.
I didn’t want to panic. Maybe her phone had died. Maybe she’d had car trouble. Maybe…
By 3 a.m., I was sitting on her couch with the TV on, volume low, just to feel less alone. That’s when I saw it.
Breaking News: Woman Missing After Leaving Charity Gala.
The anchor described a woman last seen leaving the Landmark Hotel around 11 p.m. alone. They flashed a photo.
It was Rachel.
The same dress she’d left the house in—dark green, silky, with the open back. I stared at the screen, heart pounding.
I texted her again:
“Rachel, are you okay? I’m still with Evan.”
No response.
A few minutes later, I heard movement upstairs. I froze.
Evan had been sleeping on the couch.
When I got up there, the bathroom light was on. The door half-open. I knocked gently.
“Evan?”
No answer.
I pushed the door open.
Empty.
That’s when I saw Rachel’s phone—on the sink, screen cracked, the lock screen flashing over and over. Missed calls from me. From someone named “Daniel – Work.”
I turned off the light and was about to head back downstairs when I heard something—keys jingling at the front door.
Finally.
I rushed down—but it wasn’t Rachel.
It was a man. Mid-40s. Nice coat, expensive shoes. He froze when he saw me.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Daniel,” he said, like I was the one intruding. “Where’s Rachel?”
“She never came back,” I said. “She left at 7.”
His expression changed. Something between confusion and dread.
“I thought she was supposed to be with you,” he said. “She told me she was going to your place after the gala.”
We just stared at each other.
Neither of us knew where Rachel had gone.
And neither of us knew what to do next.
Daniel sat down on the edge of the couch like someone had knocked the wind out of him. I watched him closely. Something didn’t sit right. Not just with Rachel being missing, but with him. The way he looked around the house, like he was searching for something.
“Did Rachel say anything to you? Seem off?” he asked.
“No. She was normal. Just said she’d be back by midnight.”
Then I added, “You’re her boss?”
He hesitated. “Something like that.”
I didn’t like that answer.
I glanced at the phone still in my hand—Rachel’s. I hadn’t looked through it. It didn’t feel right. But now? With her missing?
I unlocked it with her thumb (I’d seen her do it for music once), and the home screen opened. Dozens of texts… but one chain caught my eye: it wasn’t labeled, just a number. The last message, sent at 11:18 p.m., read:
“He knows. I’m going to tell the babysitter everything.”