(Part 3 — The House That Wouldn’t Answer Back)
The late-morning sun beat down on the quiet street, but Nickole’s skin prickled with unease. She stood beside the police officer at Shanann’s door, chewing her lip, her arms crossed tight across her chest. The officer gave the front door another firm knock.
“Shanann? Frederick Police! You home?”
Nothing. Not even the creak of footsteps.
Nickole shifted anxiously. “Her car’s here. Look,” she pointed. “That’s her Lexus. She never goes anywhere without it, especially not with the kids. And she had an appointment this morning—she wouldn’t miss it.”
The officer peered through the sidelight window. Shoes lined neatly against the wall. A purse sitting on a chair inside. Things that shouldn’t be there if Shanann had left on her own.
Nickole’s voice cracked as she said, “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
The officer nodded, trying to stay professional, but his eyes lingered on the purse. “Do you have a code for the garage? Or a way in?”
Nickole shook her head. “No. But Chris does.”
That was when she dialed him again. This time, urgency bled through her tone.
“Chris, you need to come home. Now. The police are here. Nobody can reach Shanann. Her car’s here, her shoes are here, but she’s not answering.”
On the other end, Chris sounded surprisingly calm, almost detached.
“I’m at work,” he said flatly. “But… okay. I’ll come back.”
Nickole snapped the call shut and muttered, “Why doesn’t he sound worried? Why isn’t he panicking?”
The officer, still knocking and circling windows, kept his expression neutral. But the seeds of suspicion were already sown.
(Part 4 — Chris Arrives)
It was around 1:40 p.m. when Chris Watts finally pulled into the driveway. He stepped out of his white pickup, wearing a dark T-shirt, sunglasses shielding his eyes. His movements were brisk, but there was something stiff about them, as if every step was rehearsed.
Nickole rushed up to him immediately. “Chris, what is going on? Where is Shanann?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said quickly, fumbling for his keys. “She said she was gonna take the girls somewhere. Maybe a playdate. I’ve been at work.”
Nickole folded her arms, staring him down. “Her car’s here, Chris. Her shoes are inside. Her purse is inside.”
Chris unlocked the door and stepped in. The officer followed close behind, body camera recording every detail.
Inside, the house was spotless, unnervingly so. The kind of clean that didn’t come from a busy mom with two toddlers, but from someone who had wiped away traces of life.
“Shanann?” Chris called out, his voice echoing in the emptiness. “Girls?”
No answer.
They moved from room to room. The officer checked the kitchen. Nickole’s eyes darted everywhere, scanning for clues. Chris headed upstairs, the others trailing behind.
That was when they found it—Shanann’s phone, wedged between the couch cushions, still plugged into its charger.
Nickole gasped. “Oh my God. She would never leave without this. Never!”
Chris picked up the phone awkwardly, then set it back down. His face was unreadable, but his hands trembled faintly.
“Maybe she… maybe she went for a walk with the girls,” he muttered.
The officer raised an eyebrow. A pregnant woman, without her phone, purse, car, or shoes—on a walk in the summer heat with two toddlers?
It didn’t add up.
