The last time I saw my daughter, Livia, before prom, she stood beneath the porch light wearing a pale blue dress that made her look older than seventeen. Her twin brother, Liam, adjusted his tie beside her, avoiding the argument already brewing between us. I warned her one last time to stay away from Mitchell, the boy I believed would ruin her future. She sighed, fighting back tears, and asked for a single evening where I would trust her judgment instead of treating her like a child. Before I could answer, she climbed into the car, closed the door, and disappeared down the street, leaving only silence behind.

Hours later, my phone rang with words no parent ever wants to hear. Livia had stepped outside the prom venue and never returned. Security cameras showed her walking away alone before vanishing into the darkness. Police searched every road, questioned classmates, and investigated Mitchell for weeks, but nothing pointed to a kidnapping. Months passed until detectives claimed Livia had contacted them voluntarily and did not wish to return home. I refused to believe it. I blamed Mitchell for manipulating her, while Liam became withdrawn, speaking only when necessary. Then, nearly a year later, while cleaning Liam’s room after he left for college, I noticed an uneven seam running along his old beanbag chair. Curious, I reached for a knife, cut the fabric open, and froze at what was hidden inside…