They Used Lilly & Jack’s Names to Scam 100.000$ | Lilly and Jack Sullivan
Tonight is about saying a prayer—
and we’re going to light the way home for them.

A paper lantern for four-year-old Jack,
another for six-year-old Lily,
released into the twilight sky as a beacon of hope.

Illuminate the past for Lily and Jack.
Guide their footsteps home.

One by one, people placed candles, teddy bears, and angels
outside the Stellarton RCMP detachment—
a growing memorial,
as many questions remain unanswered.

On the morning of May 2nd,
in the dense woodlands of Lansdowne Station, Nova Scotia,
six-year-old Lily Sullivan and her four-year-old brother Jack
were reported missing.

What followed was a massive search effort:
boots on the ground, drones overhead, helicopters circling treetops.
The community rallied with a singular purpose—
to bring the children home.

But as days stretched into weeks,
and hope strained under the weight of silence,
something darker began to emerge:
opportunists, scammers, online manipulators.

A growing number of individuals stepped forward not to help,
but to hijack the pain of a grieving community
for profit and influence.

GoFundMe campaigns appeared overnight,
bearing the children’s names.
Yet none were sanctioned by their family or the search teams.

Emotional speculation flooded social media.
And in the absence of truth, exploitation took root.

This isn’t just a story about two missing children.
It’s a cautionary tale—
of how even the purest intentions can be twisted
when desperation blinds us to deception.

Halifax Search and Rescue posted a scam alert on social media overnight.
It warned that fraudulent individuals and organizations,
impersonating Halifax Search and Rescue,
were asking for donations.

The alert was clear:
“Please be advised that we do not request donations
via third-party fundraising platforms like GoFundMe or direct messages.”

Paul Service,
chief director of Halifax Search and Rescue,
explained further:

“We became aware of a GoFundMe created to raise funds
in relation to the ongoing search in Pictou County.
It claimed to support a drone team
and listed Halifax SAR as a beneficiary
if funds went unused.
We never authorized this.
We don’t use platforms like GoFundMe at all.”

Their operational funding comes from Halifax Regional Municipality
and from the province.
When they do fundraise, it’s through public community events:
raffles, fish derbies, donation boxes—
never anonymous links online.

For Halifax Search and Rescue,
the fight to find Lily and Jack has become a battle on two fronts:
one in the woods,
and one online.

While volunteers spend sleepless hours scanning forests and rivers,
anonymous scammers are cashing in on public empathy.

Many of the fraudulent fundraisers weren’t even local.
One came from Ontario.
Another from California.
None had ties to the actual search teams.

This isn’t just a scam.
It’s a betrayal—
a theft of urgency, a hijacking of grief.

Every false campaign doesn’t just cost money—
it costs momentum.
It steals time, trust, and energy
from those truly working to bring the children home.

Deception spreads doubt.
And it erodes the very faith that fuels real rescue efforts.

In a world flooded with causes,
this case reminds us: not every plea is honest.
Sometimes the most dangerous predators
aren’t hiding in the trees—
they’re behind the screen.

A paper lantern for four-year-old Jack.
Another for six-year-old Lily.

Released into the twilight sky
as a beacon of hope.

Beneath the fading sky of Stellarton, Nova Scotia,
two paper lanterns floated into the dusk—
one for Lily, one for Jack.

A small crowd stood silent, watching them rise.
Each flicker of light a fragile vessel
for a hope too heavy to carry alone.

It had been a month since the children vanished.
Thirty days without a clue, a cry, or a sign.
Just an unanswered 911 call,
an open door,
and a silence that refuses to lift.

About 50 people gathered—
strangers and neighbors holding candles,
placing stuffed animals beneath a growing memorial.

Some drove hours just to be there.
Not because they knew the family,
but because something about the story—
about these children—
wouldn’t let them look away.

There were RCMP speakers, community voices,
and even one man who drove up from Sheet Harbour
to show his respect.

Yet not all absences were equal.
Daniel Martell, the children’s stepfather,
stood with lowered eyes and a subdued voice.
He had no legal rights to the children,
but came visibly moved.

By contrast, their mother, Malaya Brooks-Murray,
was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was her family.
In a moment meant to unify,
that silence fractured the scene.

“It’s every parent’s worst nightmare.
You don’t ever want to go through something like this.
And I think it’s good to show them
that their community is here for support.”

“Every morning I’m checking Facebook,
checking the RCMP site.
And every time I hear there’s a search,
my heart breaks.
You pray today will be the day they come home.”

Organizer Brenda McPhee called the vigil a safe space.
No accusations.
No judgment.
Just aching hearts,
hoping their light might guide two little souls home.

“We haven’t forgotten.”

Even Pictou County Warden Robert Parker admitted:

“I thought it was a little early—
that it might seem like we were accepting the inevitable.
But I think there’s still hope here.
They’re not giving up.”

The RCMP reaffirmed their commitment:
The Major Crimes Unit remains involved.
The case is still active.
Still suspicious.
Still without closure.

“Please know that we are fully engaged
in finding out what happened to Lily and Jack.”

The forest surrounding Lansdowne Station is vast,
unforgiving, and eerily quiet—
8.5 square kilometers of dense terrain
searched and re-searched
by teams who refuse to give up.

In the early days, one clue gave them direction:
a single boot print.

“It was on the pipeline.
We don’t know if it was from the children,
but it’s the only real thing we’ve had.”

That faint mark in the dirt sparked renewed searches:
May 8–9, May 17–18,
and most recently, May 31 and June 1.

Helicopters, drones, search dogs, volunteers.
But the boot print never spoke again.
No scent.
No disturbed brush.
No personal item.
Just the ghost of a step—
and then nothing.

The investigation has been exhaustive:
50+ interviews,
surveillance footage reviewed,
cell phone pings, GPS logs,
social media activity analyzed.

And yet the RCMP have made one thing clear:
This is no ordinary missing person case.

It is suspicious.
And no possibility—
not accident, not foul play—
has been ruled out.

Still, one haunting question grows louder:
What if the woods never held them at all?

In the vacuum of truth, speculation finds a voice.
One such voice was Logan—
a woman claiming to be Daniel Martell’s cousin.

Her livestream didn’t provide answers.
It scattered possibilities.

Two major theories began to form:

Theory One:
Malaya Brooks-Murray, the children’s mother,
removed Lily and Jack herself—
fleeing alleged abuse and seeking safety
on a First Nation reserve,
guided or shielded by her mother.

Theory Two:
The grandmother was the mastermind.
Emotionally dominant,
she pushed Malaya to break away from Daniel,
orchestrating the children’s disappearance
as a calculated escape.

These are not accusations—
they are hypotheses.
They arise from silence,
not certainty.

And yet, the most delicate thread is Logan herself:
her identity unconfirmed,
her connection to the family unverifiable.
But if she’s right,
the case takes a darker, more personal turn.

For now, the only compass is caution.

But even a controversial voice
can sometimes shake loose the truth.

Because when two children vanish,
and the trail goes cold,
what’s left is a community