Seven months of heartbreak. Seven months of pink ribbons on trees, candlelight vigils, and a mother’s voice cracking on every news channel: “They just wandered off… they always loved the woods.” Last night, that story died in a gravel pit.

At 11:47 p.m. on December 1, 2025, the RCMP held an emergency briefing outside Bible Hill headquarters and dropped the kind of evidence that turns a missing-children case into a murder investigation overnight: a child’s white T-shirt, soaked in blood, snagged on barbed wire 2.3 kilometres from the Sullivan trailer. The shirt is Jack’s. The blood is Jack’s. And the location is nowhere near any path two tiny autistic kids could ever reach on their own.

This is not the soft, hopeful update we’ve been clinging to. This is a scream in the dark.

The shirt (size 4T, little blue dump trucks on the front, the exact one Jack wore in the last known photo taken May 1 at the New Glasgow Walmart) was discovered by a civilian drone operator who refused to accept the official search radius. Buried under six inches of frozen leaves, half-ripped from a four-year-old’s body, sleeves shredded like someone yanked it off in a hurry. Forensic markers now dot the site like graves:

Jack’s DNA in multiple places, including a handprint-shaped smear on the inside collar.
Trace amounts of Lilly’s blanket fibers tangled in the knots.
Red clay consistent with the exact spot where Lilly’s shredded pink blanket piece was found months ago.
And the detail police tried to bury in paragraph nine of the press release: microscopic flecks of automotive primer matching the 2018 Ford F-150 registered to stepfather Daniel Martell.

That last one hit like a freight train.

Because Daniel always insisted he never left the property that morning. He told reporters he was “making coffee” when Malehya woke up to an empty house. He was the one who called 911 at 7:12 a.m. saying the kids must have slipped out the “always-unlocked” sliding door. He led the first volunteer searches himself, tears streaming, voice hoarse from shouting their names.

Now the shirt says he lied.

Investigators are no longer calling this a “missing persons” case. They used the word “suspicious” four times in eight minutes. They re-seized Daniel’s truck yesterday morning (the same one quietly returned to him in August after “nothing of evidentiary value” was found). Neighbours report unmarked cars parked outside the trailer all night. Malehya hasn’t been seen since the briefing; only baby Meadow’s cry drifting through an open window at 3 a.m. when reporters camped on the lawn.

The online true-crime community, already obsessed for months, has entered full war-room mode. Someone overlaid the 2.3 km route on Google Earth: it’s a brutal, overgrown trek across two ravines and a beaver dam. No footprints. No drag marks near the house. But fresh tire tracks (wide, aggressive tread) were photographed near the gravel pit two days after the disappearance, then mysteriously plowed over when police finally expanded the search zone last week.

And then there’s the whisper no one wants to say out loud: Jack’s blood volume on that shirt was described by one source as “incompatible with life if he lost it all at once.” Translation: wherever Jack is now, he didn’t walk away from that pit.

Tonight the tip line is exploding. Old calls are being reopened:

The neighbour who heard a child screaming “NO, DADDY” around 5:40 a.m. on May 2, dismissed because it was “too early” for the kids to be awake.
The dash-cam footage from a milk truck that caught a Ford F-150 hauling ass down Gairloch Road at 5:57 a.m., taillights off.
The burner phone that pinged a tower near the gravel pit for exactly six minutes that same morning, then vanished forever.

Lilly’s favorite stuffed unicorn still sits on the trailer steps where volunteers left it in May, now bleached by rain and snow. Jack’s tiny boots are lined up neatly by the door, waiting for feet that may never come home.

Police aren’t asking for new search parties anymore. They’re asking for witnesses who saw that truck. They’re asking anyone who bought bleach, trash bags, or shovels in bulk the first week of May to come forward. They’re asking the public to pray, but not for a miracle; for justice.

Because somewhere out there, 2.3 kilometres into the cold, cruel dark, a little boy’s blood is frozen to a white T-shirt with blue trucks.

And the monster who put it there is still walking free.

If you know something, say something. 1-888-710-9090 Reward now $250,000 and climbing.

Lilly and Jack deserve to come home, even if it’s only in pieces.