Nova Scotia is gripped by anguish and intrigue six months after two cherubic siblings vanished from their rural family home in a case that’s twisted from presumed accident to potential foul play, with explosive new court documents revealing timeline inconsistencies and a cryptic Facebook plea from their mother. Released on November 28, 2025, the redacted filings—obtained by CBC News and shared across Canadian outlets—expose glaring gaps in witness statements, a possibly unsecured back door, and early assumptions of a tragic wander that quickly unraveled under RCMP scrutiny. The last confirmed glimpse of Lilly Sullivan, 6, and her brother Jack, 4, came in heart-wrenching Dollarama security footage from May 1, timestamped 2:25 p.m., showing the wide-eyed pair giggling amid aisles of cheap toys and snacks—just 17 hours before their mother dialed 911 in panic. As the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) sift through 488 public tips and 54 interviews, the case—now classified as “suspicious” rather than criminal—has sparked online sleuthing frenzies, volunteer vigils, and a $150,000 reward that’s drawn international eyes. In a province scarred by child disappearances, from the 1984 Highway of Tears echoes to modern cold cases, the Sullivans’ story isn’t just a mystery—it’s a mirror to systemic failures in rural child safety, leaving a shattered family and a community haunted by “what ifs.”

The saga began innocently enough on a crisp spring afternoon in New Glasgow, Pictou County—a unassuming Maritime town of 9,000 where Dollarama shelves promise small joys for big dreams. At 2:25 p.m. on May 1, 2025, grainy CCTV captured what would become the siblings’ final documented moments of unbridled innocence. Lilly, with her tousled brown curls and a pink sweater hugging her slight frame, clutched a sparkly sticker sheet, her laughter bubbling as she pointed at candy displays. Beside her in the shopping cart, toddler Jack—chubby-cheeked and gap-toothed—waved a pilfered toy car like a trophy, his dimpled grin lighting up the frame. Their baby sister Meadow, just 18 months, babbled from the cart’s seat, oblivious to the adults trailing behind: their mother, Malehya Brooks-Murray, 28, and stepfather Daniel Martell, 30, navigating the store with a mix of fatigue and familiarity. “They looked so happy, so normal—like any kids on a treat run,” Brooks-Murray later sobbed in a June interview with CTV, her voice fracturing as she pored over the footage provided by police. The family checked out with $12.47 in bargains—markers, glue sticks, and a bag of gummy bears—heading home to their isolated Lansdowne Station property, a rambling farmhouse nestled amid dense Acadian forests and fog-shrouded fields.

By evening, the routine resumed: dinner of mac-and-cheese, bedtime stories under a quilt stitched by Grandma Cyndy, and lights out between 9 and 10 p.m. Or so the initial narrative went. The back door, per court docs, may have been left ajar—a detail that shifted from “oversight” to “red flag” as investigators revisited the scene. Come morning, May 2 dawned with deceptive calm. Around 8:50 a.m., Janie Mackenzie—Martell’s mother, visiting from nearby Truro—recalled hearing “giggles and squeals” from the backyard swings, a sound that pierced the quiet like a promise of playtime. “I thought, ‘Those little ones are up to mischief again,'” she told Global News in July, her hands twisting a tea towel as tears welled. But by 9:40 a.m., silence fell. Brooks-Murray, prepping breakfast, noticed the empty bedrooms. Panic escalated: a frantic yard sweep, calls to neighbors, and at 10:01 a.m., the 911 plea: “My babies are gone—they were just here!” RCMP arrived within 15 minutes, boots crunching gravel as the first waves of dread set in.

What followed was a Herculean hunt that mobilized 160 volunteers, 11 specialized units—including Major Crimes, Forensic Identification, and K9 cadaver teams—and tech like helicopters, drones, and thermal imaging over 10 square kilometers of rugged terrain. Ground zero: the property’s wooded perimeter, where searchers combed ravines and culverts for any trace—a footprint, a discarded gummy wrapper, a child’s cry echoing off birch trunks. Nothing. “We flipped every stone, drained ponds, even checked root cellars for hidden compartments,” RCMP Sgt. Lisa McCully detailed in an August presser, her uniform crisp but eyes shadowed. Polygraphs were administered to family—Brooks-Murray and Martell passed, though “inconclusive” notes linger in filings—while financials, cell pings, and social media scrolls yielded no smoking gun. Estranged biological father Cody Sullivan, 29, from Halifax, was raided June 5; his apartment turned up empty save for baby photos and a half-eaten pizza. “I’d never hurt them—they’re my world,” he insisted via GoFundMe, raising $45K for private eyes by November. Borders and airports were monitored, but no alerts tripped. A pink blanket—Lilly’s favorite—surfaced in a nearby ditch, details redacted amid ongoing analysis.

By May 7, the active phase scaled back, transitioning to a tip-line torrent: 488 leads, from “sightings” in Halifax parks to wild theories of trafficking rings. July 16 marked a pivot: the “missing, endangered” tag upgraded to “suspicious,” with McCully citing “elements not aligning.” Public tips poured in—Reddit’s r/RBI dissected door locks and swing creaks; YouTube true-crime channels racked 2 million views on “Sullivan Enigma” timelines; Facebook groups like “Justice for Lilly & Jack” ballooned to 50K members, swapping satellite maps and psychic hunches. Comparisons to Madeleine McCann flooded feeds: “Locked doors or lured away? The 17-hour gap screams cover-up,” one viral thread fumed, hitting 10K shares. Volunteers persisted—weekly woods walks with bells on bootlaces, mimicking lost-child signals—while a $150K reward, pooled from provincial coffers and private donors, dangled like a lifeline. “Someone knows—$150K could change a life,” Gov. Gen. Mary Simon urged in a rare statement, her words rippling through Maritime airwaves.

Family fractures deepened the wound. Brooks-Murray and Martell separated May 6, amid whispers of strain; she relocated to Ontario, posting a haunting Facebook missive November 20: “My babies are out there. Don’t stop looking. 💔”—a plea that garnered 20K reactions but fueled speculation. Martell, battling stress-induced health woes, told Halifax Examiner in September: “Daniel’s a good man, but this… it’s eating us alive. Stay vigilant at crossings—kids vanish in blinks.” Grandma Cyndy Murray, from Pictou’s tight-knit core, granted a raw CBC sit-down October 15: “I hear their laughs in the wind. Bring my grandbabies home—please.” Sullivan, the bio-dad, leaned into advocacy, his GoFundMe plea: “No stone unturned— for Lilly’s stickers and Jack’s cars.” Baby Meadow, now 2, toddles through the void, her coos a bittersweet echo in family lore.

As winter bites Nova Scotia’s shores—searches halted by snowdrifts—the probe grinds on, with November filings unearthing timeline tremors: Mackenzie’s “8:50 giggles” clashing with Brooks-Murray’s “9:40 quiet”; an unsecured door “possibly” ajar; no footprints despite dry soil. “Inconsistencies noted, but no evidence of third-party involvement,” RCMP’s latest bulletin reads, yet “suspicious elements” linger like fog. Experts weigh in: Dr. Elena Vasquez, child psych from Dalhousie University, warned in a Maclean’s op-ed: “Survivor’s guilt morphs communities—rural isolation amplifies paranoia.” Forensic whispers hint at DNA traces in a ravine (redacted), but leads fizzle. A alleged woods sighting July 10—two small figures by a creek—evaporated under scrutiny.

Public pulse races: #FindLillyAndJack trends weekly, with 1.2 million X impressions; petitions for federal task forces hit 75K signatures. Comparisons to 2010’s Tori Stafford case—abducted from a school path—stir chills, while advocates like Missing Children Society of Canada decry rural blind spots: “No Amber Alerts in backwoods—kids slip through.” Volunteers, undeterred, plan spring sweeps; a Dollarama mural in New Glasgow immortalizes the siblings’ smiles, petals and prayers piling at its base.

In Lansdowne’s leaf-strewn lanes, the 17-hour countdown ticks eternal—a snapshot of joy swallowed by shadow. For a family fractured, a province pierced, the hunt endures: not just for two lost lights, but for truth in the timber. As Brooks-Murray’s post haunts: “Don’t stop looking.” Nova Scotia won’t—until the giggles return, or closure claims the quiet. Tip line: 1-800-780-7654. In the Maritimes’ misty embrace, hope clings like salt spray.