At 17, I was just a kid looking to make some cash babysitting. But one night, everything changed. The twins I looked after were fast asleep upstairs. Their parents,

quiet and well-dressed people named Willa and Dorian Mercer, had left their usual note: “Back by midnight. Help yourself to food. Thank you, Shay.”

By 4 a.m., I was pacing their living room, heart pounding, wondering if something awful had happened. I turned on the TV for background noise, desperate for distraction.

I called my mom. She came immediately, saw the news, and whispered, “Oh my God…” as if we’d stepped into someone else’s nightmare. At 6 a.m., we called Child Protective Services.