In the misty backwoods of Nova Scotia’s Pictou County, where family feuds simmer like fog over the wetlands, a six-month nightmare took a jaw-dropping turn on November 25, 2025. Darin Geddes, the 42-year-old uncle of missing siblings Lilly and Jack Sullivan, was arrested in a dawn raid on his New Glasgow trailer, facing heavy charges of child abduction and obstruction of justice. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, after sifting through 800 tips, encrypted hard drives, and a trail of suspicious bank withdrawals, zeroed in on Geddes as the man who allegedly snatched his niece and nephew from their Lansdowne Station home on May 2—supposedly to “protect” them from a family rift gone toxic. As tactical teams hauled him away in cuffs, the question burning across the Maritimes: Are 6-year-old Lilly and 4-year-old Jack still alive, hidden in some remote cabin, or has this “familial rescue” turned tragic? With cadaver dogs now scouring New Brunswick backroads, the arrest has reignited a flicker of hope amid the despair, but for mother Emily Sullivan, it’s a fresh stab of betrayal from blood she trusted.

Vanished in the Dawn: A Mother’s Morning of Madness

It was a crisp spring Friday in Lansdowne Station, a speck of a community off Gairloch Road where gravel crunches underfoot and pickup trucks outnumber people. Emily Sullivan, 32, a part-time cashier at the local IGA with a warm smile and callused hands from juggling shifts and sippy cups, woke at 9:45 a.m. to an empty house that screamed wrong. The kids’ beds—Lilly’s pink Barbie-themed canopy and Jack’s dinosaur-patterned racecar—were pristine, untouched. Toys lay scattered like forgotten dreams: Lilly’s strawberry-print cream backpack slumped by the door, Jack’s black Under Armour joggers folded neatly beside his pull-up diapers. No cereal bowls in the sink, no crayon chaos on the fridge. Panic hit like a freight train. Emily dialed 911 at 10:01 a.m., her voice cracking: “My babies are gone. The door was unlocked—please, God, find them.”

Lilly Patricia Sullivan, 6, was the strawberry-blonde firecracker with curls that bounced like springs, her hazel eyes sparkling under a fringe of lashes. She lived for sparkly tops, playground tag, and whispering secrets to her stuffed unicorn, Mr. Whiskers. Her brother Jack William Sullivan, 4, was the pint-sized explorer with a mop of tousled brown hair and a grin that could melt ice—clomping around in his beloved T-Rex light-up boots, obsessed with trucks and “roar” sound effects. The siblings, inseparable as peanut butter and jelly, shared a room in the family’s modest single-story bungalow, a fixer-upper with a creaky swing set out back where summer barbecues turned into tickle fights. Their disappearance wasn’t some stranger’s snatch; it felt intimate, calculated—like the house had been staged for a ghost story.

Emily’s 911 plea launched a frenzy. Within hours, Northeast Nova RCMP Major Crime Unit swarmed the scene, taping off the property under the Missing Persons Act. Over 160 officers, volunteers, and K-9 teams blanketed 40 square kilometers of dense woods, bogs, and streams—drones buzzing overhead, divers probing murky waters, helicopters thumping like distant thunder. By May 4, the search had ballooned: 740 tips flooded in, 9,300 video clips from dashcams and doorbells pored over in a Bible Hill command center. A provincial reward hit $150,000, with Attorney General Becky Druhan pleading on CBC: “Someone knows. Speak now—for Lilly and Jack.” False alarms piled up—a forest scream debunked as a chopper echo, airport alerts that fizzled. But whispers turned inward: phone records, bank statements, custody wars between Emily and the kids’ estranged biological father in Ontario.

Cracks in the Kin: From Trusted Uncle to Prime Suspect

The probe peeled back the Sullivan family’s quiet facade like onion layers, revealing tensions that had been brewing since Emily’s messy split. Stepfather Kyle Martell, 35, a grease-stained mechanic with a steady job at the local garage and a habit of coaching Little League, faced early heat. Neighbors whispered of shouting matches—”yelling about money, kids crying”—and polygraphs were mandatory. Martell passed with flying colors, his alibi ironclad: clocked in at the shop till 2 a.m., dashcam footage showing his truck parked overnight. “I changed their diapers, chased their nightmares,” he told reporters in June, voice raw. “Whoever took them? I’ll hunt ’em down myself.”

Spotlight swung to Darin Geddes, Emily’s older brother and the kids’ doting uncle—a burly construction foreman with a salt-and-pepper beard, a hot temper masked by dad jokes, and a trailer 10 minutes down the road cluttered with soccer trophies from his days coaching youth teams. Geddes was the family rock: holiday hams at his place, piggyback rides for Jack, tea parties with Lilly. But cracks showed. He’d been neck-deep in the custody drama, anonymously tipping Child Services about “abuse” by Martell—calls traced back to his burner phone. Bitter over Emily’s new life post-divorce, he’d rant to buddies about “protecting the bloodline” from “that outsider.”

Forensic breadcrumbs damned him. Deleted texts from May 1 pinged: “We need to talk—urgent. Meet at 1 a.m.” His truck’s GPS? Parked suspiciously near the Sullivan home at 2 a.m. on May 2. Bank records flagged $2,500 withdrawn in cash days prior—enough for gas, motels, a hasty hideout. The clincher: a New Brunswick tipster’s whisper led to encrypted drives seized from Geddes’ trailer, yielding timestamped photos of Lilly and Jack in unfamiliar woods, dated May 3. The kids looked wide-eyed, scared but unscathed—Lilly clutching Mr. Whiskers, Jack mid-roar with a stick “gun.” Fabric fibers from the Sullivans’ couch matched scraps in Geddes’ truck bed. A journal entry, scrawled in his blocky hand: “They’re safe with me now. Can’t let him poison them.”

RCMP pieced it as a twisted “rescue”: Geddes, convinced Martell was a threat, allegedly slipped in unlocked (Emily’s bad habit), bundled the sleeping kids into his Ford F-150, and vanished into the night. No ransom, no malice—just a uncle’s delusion of heroism. Court docs unsealed via FOI requests painted him evasive: a May 30 interview turned confrontational, Geddes demanding intel while dodging questions. By November, warrants dropped—child abduction, obstruction. Inspector Luke Rettie, leading the charge, called it “a breakthrough born of tireless grind. We’re optimistic—these kids are fighters.”

Dawn Raid Drama: From Barricade to Cuffs

November 25 dawned cold and gray over New Glasgow. At 6:45 a.m., RCMP tactical units—rifles drawn, vests bulky—encircled Geddes’ double-wide trailer, a weathered eyesore with a rusted swing set out front. Perimeter locked, negotiators on megaphones: “Darin, come out peaceful. We just want to talk.” Inside, shadows shifted; a shotgun barrel glinted through blinds. Barricaded for 2.5 hours, Geddes finally emerged at 9:15 a.m.—gaunt, unshaven, hollow-eyed in a faded Habs hoodie. “No comment,” he muttered to the press scrum, cuffed and shoved into an unmarked cruiser. The raid netted gold: kids’ clothes matching descriptions (Lilly’s pink top, Jack’s dino boots), a burner phone with pings to remote Mi’kmaq reserves, and that damning journal.

Geddes faces arraignment in Pictou Provincial Court on December 2, with bail a long shot. Ontario and New Brunswick RCMP mobilized—drones over crown land, K-9s sniffing for scents from the kids’ unwashed blankets. “We’re treating this as abduction, not homicide—yet,” Rettie cautioned. “Every lead’s a lifeline.” The $150K reward stands, tips pouring into Crime Stoppers (1-800-222-TIPS). True-crime pods like “Criming Shame” buzzed with speculation—Geddes even guested pseudonymously as “Derwood O’Grady,” floating wild theories before his own plot twisted.

Betrayal’s Bitter Sting: A Family Fractured, Hope Hanging by Threads

For Emily, the arrest was a gut-punch double-tap. In a raw June CBC sit-down, she’d clutched Lilly’s unicorn plush, tears carving rivers: “My girl with her giggles, my boy with his roars—they’re out there. I feel it in my bones.” September’s YouTube plea, filmed in the empty nursery: “Darin adored them. He’d never…” The news hit mid-vigil; she collapsed in Kyle’s arms, wailing, “My brother? Bring my babies home!” Kyle, the stepdad who’d bonded over backyard forts, seethed: “He was family. We barbecued Sundays. This knife twists deepest.” The bio dad, a Toronto welder estranged since the split, jetted in: “Jack and Lilly are my world. Whatever it takes—I’ll tear down walls.”

The Maritimes mourned in waves. Lansdowne’s 500 souls rallied: candlelit walks snaking Gairloch Road, posters fluttering from every lamppost—Lilly’s curls beaming, Jack’s grin defiant. A Pictou fundraiser swelled to $200K, earmarked for private eyes and child psych support. Church deacon no more (Geddes quit in ’24 amid whispers), neighbors recoiled: “He coached my kid’s team—always the big uncle. Late-night drives, yeah, but this?” RCMP’s Rettie, stone-faced at briefings, let slip guarded optimism: “207 days gone, but kids are resilient. We’re closing in.”

Shadows Lift, But the Hunt Endures: Justice’s Long Road

Six months of heartache—empty high chairs, silent swings—now pivot on Geddes’ silence. Interrogations drag in Halifax cells; his lawyer hints at “misunderstood protection.” Cadaver dogs hit paydirt? No—scents lead to abandoned cabins, but no remains. Drones map 100 square miles of reserve land, divers dredge forgotten ponds. Emily’s mantra, scrawled on her fridge: “Hope’s not a plan—it’s a promise.” As winter bites, the Sullivans cling: family therapy sessions, unicorn hunts in the yard, Jack’s boots polished for his return.

In Pictou’s tight-knit weave, where kin means everything, Geddes’ fall rips threads wide. Was it love gone lethal, or a desperate bid to “save” them from divorce debris? RCMP vows answers by New Year’s—no stone unturned, no plea ignored. For Lilly and Jack, the roar and the curls wait. In a case that gripped a nation, this arrest isn’t closure—it’s the crack of dawn after endless night. Will it bring them home? The Maritimes holds its breath, fists clenched in prayer.