She Handed Over the Footage—Then Everything Changed | Lily and Jack Sullivan
Melissa Scott’s trail cameras might contain clues about the disappearance of Lily and Jack Sullivan. RCMP asked her for days of footage as the investigation into the missing children approaches the three-week mark. “It’s scary, especially not knowing what happened. We definitely keep our kids a little closer to home now.”

It had been nearly three weeks since Lily and Jack Sullivan vanished into the wilderness of Nova Scotia when a quiet shift occurred—one that escaped headlines but may have reshaped the entire investigation. Without warning, RCMP officers returned to the rural outskirts of Lancetown Station. But this time, they weren’t carrying search maps or coordinating air support. They brought a USB drive. Their mission wasn’t to find new trails; it was to revisit old ones.

A neighbor living just kilometers from the children’s home was asked to surrender days of trail camera footage, not just from the moment the children were reported missing, but from before—back to April 27th. This detail matters because in doing so, the RCMP signaled something critical: they were no longer certain when the children disappeared.

So, why this delayed request? It points to doubt—doubt about the timeline, doubt about what was said, and possibly a growing belief that the truth may be hiding not in future leads, but in overlooked footage that quietly recorded shadows, vehicles, and movement in the days leading up to May 2nd. The decision to go back wasn’t random. It followed a sudden second wave of search activity—unannounced and focused. It suggests new information came to light, something not yet made public, something serious enough to warrant rewinding the story.

Because when investigators return after weeks of silence, not to search, but to see, it often means they’re no longer chasing someone missing. They’re trying to confirm someone’s story. And in the still frames of forest cameras, where nothing ever seems to happen, the truth might already be there—flickering between trees, waiting for someone to notice what was always just out of frame.

Six-year-old Lily and four-year-old Jack Sullivan were reported missing from their home in Pictou County on Friday, May 2nd. Nova Scotia RCMP launched a search with more than 100 people involved, both on the ground and in the air. On day six, the RCMP announced the search for the missing kids was being scaled back. While most crews left the area, dive teams scoured local bodies of water but found no evidence. On day 12, police issued a release saying they were following up on more than 180 tips and had identified 35 people for formal interviews. Then, on Friday, RCMP announced the search would resume that weekend. More than 100 volunteer searchers returned to the sparsely populated area, 140 kilometers northeast of Halifax.

It started like countless other missing child cases—with a frantic 911 call and a story that seemed, at first, tragically simple. Two children—six-year-old Lily Sullivan and her four-year-old brother Jack—had reportedly wandered away from their rural home in Landown Station, a quiet place deep in Nova Scotia’s wooded interior. But almost immediately, something didn’t feel right. A six-day search was launched, sprawling across 5.5 square kilometers of rugged terrain. Drones filled the sky, dogs combed the forest floor, and dozens of volunteers joined the effort. And yet, nothing. No trail, no trace, not even the smallest clue to suggest where the children had gone.

Then, just when it seemed the search had reached its end, something changed. Authorities returned, not to start again, but to focus. Their attention narrowed sharply on the area surrounding the children’s home. Yet no one would say why, and that silence may speak volumes. The RCMP confirmed what many suspected: their major crime unit had been involved since day one. A unit brought in not just for disappearances, but for potential foul play. And in a case where nothing has been found, the truth may lie not in the woods, but in the version of events that was told.

This is some of the footage Scott gave police. She says RCMP major crimes officers came to her home this week asking for everything on her seven cameras, starting from April 27th—five days before the kids were reported missing.

It was May 20th when the RCMP quietly returned, not to the dense woods of Lancetown Station, but to a private driveway just eight kilometers away. Their destination: the home of Melissa Scott, a 44-year-old resident whose sprawling 16-hectare property sits hidden behind tree lines and dirt roads. What brought them there wasn’t a search party. It was a question—and a USB stick. Melissa had what few others did: eyes on the forest. Seven trail cameras placed strategically around her land. One faced the driveway, another watched the house. The rest were scattered across wooded trails, covering nearly every angle of approach.

Retrieving footage from them took nearly an hour on foot. But what they recorded could take days to examine. The request from RCMP was specific. They first asked for footage from May 1st to May 3rd—the window around the reported disappearance of Lily and Jack Sullivan. But then something changed. Investigators expanded the time frame. Now they wanted everything from April 27th onward—a full five days before the children were reported missing.

Why that window? Possibly they are wondering if the children went missing earlier, or maybe someone who isn’t local to the area was around beforehand. Because if the children didn’t vanish on May 2nd, if something happened earlier, the evidence would be in those days—a car that doesn’t belong, a figure in the woods, a door that opens when it shouldn’t. The footage could show whether the children were ever seen leaving the house, or if someone else arrived before the 911 call was made.

By Thursday afternoon, Melissa had handed over hours of video. In a case like this, truth may not be found in the woods at all. It may be flickering silently in the frames of a forgotten camera.

This road is the most direct path from Scott’s property to the home the kids went missing from. We drove between the two places. It’s about an 18-minute drive down rough dirt roads, straight through the woods—about five kilometers. Tucked away in Glengarry Station, Melissa Scott’s land appears distant—roughly eight kilometers from Landown Station by dirt road. But maps don’t always tell the full story. Because between these two rural points lies something that rarely makes headlines but can change the course of an investigation: connection.

Though separated by trees and farmland, Melissa’s property and the Sullivan home are silently linked—not by paved roads or neighborhood routes, but by a path that’s rarely traveled. An old railway line and the utility corridors that run beside it. The straight-line distance is just five kilometers—a short hike for anyone who knows the terrain. And critically, routes like these are unmonitored, unlit, forgotten. To investigators, this matters. Because if someone wanted to approach the Sullivan house or leave it without being seen on local roads or by passing cars, this is how they would do it.

Railway corridors and powerline trails are known blind spots. They’re quiet, overgrown, and often ignored by initial search efforts. But to someone looking to move without notice, they offer exactly what’s needed: access and cover.

This geographic reality reframes everything. It explains why the RCMP returned to Melissa Scott’s cameras weeks after the search was called off. It suggests they’re not just retracing steps, they’re exploring routes that were overlooked. It also raises the question: are there surveillance devices, trail cams, or eyewitnesses along that corridor? Who saw something, but didn’t know it mattered?

Just days before Lily and Jack Sullivan vanished, a Facebook post quietly surfaced from someone claiming to live just 500 feet from the family’s rural home. At first glance, it read like an anxious reflection, but beneath the surface, it hinted at something more unsettling—something that, if true, could fundamentally alter the narrative of this entire case.

The neighbor admitted they didn’t even know children lived there. To them, the house had always seemed like something else entirely. Frequent traffic, unfamiliar cars parked at all hours, and a strange, unshakable impression that something wasn’t right. One afternoon, possibly Wednesday or Thursday, they drove past and saw the driveway full with an additional vehicle pulled up along the main road. It struck them not just because of the number of people, but because it felt like something secretive was happening. And by Friday, the children were gone.

Now, online theorists are digging deep. Was it a party? Were drugs involved? Did the children accidentally come into contact with something lethal? Could their disappearance have been a cover-up? Whispers began circulating about what was later found in the home. Reports suggested that drug paraphernalia was discovered both inside the house and in at least one vehicle. The children’s mother was reportedly drug tested and asked to leave. CPS allegedly intervened, insisting she remove her newborn from the property. She’s now said to be living with relatives.

And then came the confrontation on Saturday. Family members of the mother showed up, a heated accusation—a claim that the stepfather had harmed the children. Tension boiled over until the stepfather’s mother forced them out. The deeper you look, the darker it gets.

This isn’t just a story of two missing children anymore. It’s a case tangled in secret suspicion and the chilling possibility that the truth may have been hidden in plain sight all along.

I did mention to them that I was very happy to see them and glad that they were canvassing a little further and looking at trail cam footage, and they did respond saying that they probably should have been around earlier.

Back to Melissa Scott. When Melissa Scott handed over hours of trail camera footage to RCMP, she assumed she was