I was only gone two hours to run errands and grab my sister’s birthday gift. Kelsie, our babysitter, seemed perfect—responsible, CPR certified, and studying early childhood education. I had no reason to worry.

But when I walked in, the silence hit me. For a house with two kids under five, it was eerily quiet. The TV was on, toys scattered, but no giggles—just stillness.

Then I saw the dog crate. Inside it wasn’t our dog, but my daughter, Ellie—red-faced, tear-streaked, sitting cross-legged. Her twin brother stood beside her, smiling like it was a game.

“What is going on?” I asked, stunned.

Kelsie, barely looking up from her phone, said, “They were playing zoo. She wanted to be the tiger.”

Ellie shook her head. “She locked it, Mommy. I said I didn’t wanna play anymore.”

And the crate was latched.

I turned back to Kelsie. She shrugged. “She was being dramatic. I didn’t want to encourage that.”

“You locked a four-year-old in a crate?”

“She needed a time out,” she said. “It’s not like she was in danger.”

I snapped a photo of Ellie, told Kelsie to get out, and reported her to the agency. They were horrified and said she’d be removed.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling something else was wrong. The next day, I called Ellie’s preschool teacher and asked if she’d ever noticed anything strange.

There was a long pause. Then the teacher said, “Actually…”