I was only gone two hours—just enough time to grab my sister’s birthday gift. Kelsie, our sitter, seemed ideal: early childhood major, CPR certified, highly recommended.

But something felt wrong the moment I walked in. The house was quiet—too quiet for two kids under five. The TV blared, toys were scattered, but no laughter, no running. Just silence.

Then I saw the dog crate.

Inside was Ellie, sitting cross-legged, cheeks streaked with tears. Max stood nearby, giggling like it was a game.

“What is going on?” I asked, heart pounding.

Kelsie didn’t even look up from her phone. “They were playing zoo. She wanted to be the tiger.”

But Ellie whispered, “I told her I didn’t wanna play anymore. She locked it.”

The latch was shut. Locked.

When I confronted Kelsie, she shrugged. “She was being dramatic. I didn’t want to encourage it.”

I opened the crate. Ellie clung to me, shaking. Kelsie kept scrolling.

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

“She needed a time-out. It wasn’t dangerous.”

I snapped a photo of Ellie’s tear-streaked face and told Kelsie to leave. She muttered something about “soft parents” on her way out.

I reported her. The agency dropped her immediately.

But something still gnawed at me. The next morning, I called Ellie’s preschool teacher and asked if Ellie had ever said anything… strange.

There was a long pause. Too long.