At 17, I was just babysitting for some extra cash. The Mercers—Willa and Dorian—left their usual note: “Back by midnight.” But midnight came and went. By 4 a.m., I was pacing, worried. Then I saw the news. Their faces were on TV—caught trying to flee the country with fake passports. Embezzlement, fraud… it was all surreal. And I was still in their house. Their kids, Elise and Ezra, were asleep upstairs.
I called my mom. At dawn, we contacted Child Protective Services. The kids were taken away—Elise crying, Ezra clutching his dinosaur book.Three months later, I got a letter: “Thank you for taking care of them. We trusted you. Don’t forget them. —W.” I didn’t.
