Marissa Rodriguez couldn’t sleep. Again.

One week to the minute since her 19-year-old niece Brianna Aguilera supposedly jumped from the 17th-floor balcony of 21 Rio, Marissa opened Find My on her iPad out of habit, the same way she’d refreshed it every ten minutes since Brianna went missing.

The map loaded. The little maroon dot with Brianna’s smiling profile picture was no longer frozen at 21 Rio.

It was blinking. Alive. On the dark banks of Walnut Creek, eight miles north.

Marissa screen-recorded it, hands trembling so hard the video is sideways. You can hear her whisper-scream, “Oh my God, oh my God, she’s not dead, she’s not dead,” before the dot holds steady for six minutes and forty-two seconds, then streaks northwest on Mopac like someone just realized what they were holding and floored it.

By the time Marissa called 911, the dot was gone forever.

She posted the recording to TikTok at 3:11 a.m. with the caption: “This is my niece’s phone 90 minutes AFTER police said she was already in a body bag. Someone took her. Someone still has her. WHO HAS BRIANNA’S PHONE?”

The video hit 4.8 million views before sunrise.

Austin PD’s carefully constructed suicide timeline collapsed in real time.

What we now know:

Brianna’s actual phone (rose-gold iPhone 14, glitter PopSocket, tiny “Gig ’em” sticker on the camera bump) never fell 17 stories.
The phone recovered under her body was a burned-out iPhone 12 in a similar maroon case, wiped clean and placed there as a decoy.
At 2:14 a.m., while Stephanie Rodriguez was still screaming on I-35 South begging dispatch to “find my baby,” Brianna’s real phone was pinging cell towers along the Walnut Creek greenbelt, a spot locals call “the dump” because bodies and evidence disappear there faster than the water rises.
At 2:21 a.m. the phone connected to a Honda Civic registered to Sophia G., one of the three sorority sisters who were supposedly “with Brianna on the balcony when she jumped.”
At 2:27 a.m. the phone battery dies or is crushed. It has not turned on since.

Sophia G. lawyered up at 7:03 a.m. today. She has not been seen since.

By 9 a.m., APD had dive teams, cadaver dogs, and a backhoe tearing up the creek bed. By noon they found the first piece of the puzzle: Brianna’s real phone case, glitter PopSocket still attached, half-buried under a log twenty yards from where the final ping occurred. The phone itself is gone, but the SIM tray was forced open and the card removed.

Marissa didn’t stop with the video. She posted the last text thread Brianna ever sent her, timestamped 12:44 a.m., three minutes before the fall:

Aunt Rissa if anything happens tonight it’s not what they’ll say Jake filmed me when I was blacked out he said he’ll send it to A&M if I don’t “make it right” I’m on the balcony trying to delete it from his cloud tell mom I love her bigger than Texas

The messages were deleted from Brianna’s iCloud at 1:03 a.m. by someone using Jake Harlan’s Apple ID.

Jake Harlan, the same UT lacrosse player whose DNA was found on the underside of the railing yesterday, whose Tahoe crossed into Oklahoma, whose father’s jet is now wheels-up over the Gulf.

Stephanie Rodriguez stood in the creek mud this afternoon, sequin cowboy hat soaked, screaming at the news helicopters:

“They told me my daughter killed herself because she was drunk and sad. Her phone took a field trip while she was bleeding out on concrete. That’s not suicide. That’s cleanup.”

Tonight, Walnut Creek is ringed in floodlights and crime-scene tape. Every news station in Texas is live. And somewhere, a rose-gold phone that never actually died with Brianna is still missing, its final six minutes and forty-two seconds by the water holding the truth APD tried to bury.

Marissa ended her TikTok with eight words that are now echoing from Kyle Field to the Capitol:

“Find the phone. Find the boy. Bring my niece home.”

The creek lied. But the cloud doesn’t.