Did the Stepfather Lie? RCMP Finally Confronts Daniel Over Missing Kids! | Lilly and Jack Sullivan
It begins with a simple truth: two children are missing.

Lily Sullivan, just four years old, and her younger brother Jack vanished from their rural trailer in Lanstown Station, Nova Scotia. That was May. Since then, investigators say they’ve followed nearly 500 tips, interviewed over 50 people, and even flown in specialists for polygraph testing. But there’s still no sign of the siblings.

At the center of this story is Daniel Martel—their stepfather. A man who insists he was the first to volunteer for a polygraph. A man who says he wanted to help. But in a case drowning in silence, every word he utters has become a kind of evidence.

“I just want them home,” he said, voice shaking ever so slightly. “I wanna hold them. I want them home.”

He pauses, then adds something almost tender, almost ordinary: “Lily loves girly things. But she also loves doing everything with Jack. Bugs, the outdoors. They’re like best friends—not just brother and sister.”

It’s a fleeting moment of warmth in a narrative otherwise marked by procedural detachment. Because when Daniel Martel speaks publicly, the tone often shifts—from the emotional to the technical, from longing to legal language.

In one interview, when asked about the polygraph, the exchange unfolds like this:

“You said they’re flying someone in for a polygraph test. Is that on you?”

There’s a pause. Then Martel replies, “Uh… that’s not just on me, but on everyone.”

It’s the kind of answer that spreads accountability before any has been assigned. In the world of forensic linguistics, that’s known as distancing language—a subtle way of avoiding full ownership.

He continues: “That’s what I asked for. I asked for that early on.”

It sounds cooperative. But behavior analysts would tell you: few people request a lie detector test unless they feel accused—or fear someone close to them does.

And then, a shift. “I think their side of the family doesn’t believe me,” he adds.

Not the police. Not investigators. Their side of the family. The suspicion is now personal, not legal. Emotional, not investigative.

The interviewer probes further: “Why do you think you need to do that?”

Again, Daniel’s words don’t directly address truth. Instead, he turns to the internet: “Not just the people online making crazy accusations…”

But when two children vanish, stepfathers rarely focus on online backlash. Not if they’re desperate. Not if they’re innocent. Their attention stays locked on the search—the woods, the neighbors, the timeline. Not their reputation.

When asked whether he passed the polygraph, Martel replies, “I do have results… I don’t know if I can share those results, but… they were good in my favor.”

The RCMP refuses to confirm his claim. No official record. Just a self-assured statement. Passed—but unverifiable.

Still, Martel insists: “I know it’d be a big help in the case, and kind of narrow down… maybe some of the speculations… and just provide more evidence.”

A curious sentence. Confident at first—“I know”—then it softens: “kind of,” “maybe,” “some.” Vague qualifiers. Distancing phrases.

And then there’s the repeated use of “and… and…”—a minor stumble, but analysts note such stammers can be signs of cognitive stress or anxiety, especially when discussing something like a polygraph.

He doesn’t say the test would prove he’s innocent. Only that it would provide “more evidence.” Not evidence that exonerates him. Just… something more.

When recounting the test itself, Martel remains vague: “I was asked several things… including whether or not I was involved in the disappearance of the children.”

Several things. No specifics. No emotion. No denial.

He does mention the police confiscated both his and his estranged wife’s cellphones. It’s a telling detail: the inclusion of “estranged” is emotionally loaded. It introduces the possibility—perhaps unintentionally—that someone else may bear responsibility.

And that may be the most consistent pattern in his speech: the subtle redirection of focus. The quiet repositioning of blame.

Later, he says, “I went from a house of seven voices to… just… just me.”

It’s an emotional sentence. The repetition of “just” suggests stress. And yet, even here, the focus is on his own loss—not on the children, not even on finding them.

He doesn’t mention Jack or Lily by name. Instead, he says: “I haven’t even got to see my own kids. Not even Meadow yet.”

Meadow. His biological daughter. The only child named. The only one he expresses longing for.

For behavioral analysts, this is significant. When a person mentions only their biological child in a conversation about two missing stepchildren, it signals emotional distancing.

Even his final sentiment—“I’m still hopeful”—lacks clarity. Hopeful about what? Finding the kids? Clearing his name? Gaining custody?

In place of action, there is silence. In place of anguish, there is structure.

And as the cameras roll, Daniel Martel chooses gratitude over desperation. “Thanks to investigators and everyone sharing tips,” he says. “Even if none have led to finding Jack and Lily.”

It’s an odd phrasing. It casts him as a spectator to the investigation, not an active participant.

In the end, a polygraph can’t prove innocence. But sometimes, it reveals what people fear—and what they’re trying to hide.

Every word matters. Every omission counts.

Because silence is the enemy of truth.

And Jack and Lily Sullivan deserve more than silence.