My sister-in-law called me from a resort asking me to feed her dog.

— but when I got to her house, there was no dog at all… only her five-year-old son locked inside a bedroom.

It was a calm Sunday when Carla, my sister-in-law, called me.
Her voice sounded light… almost too light.

“Hi, Paula! Could you do me a little favor? Can you stop by my place to feed Buddy for a couple of days? We came to Golden Lake Resort for a family weekend. You’re an angel!”

Buddy was a sweet golden retriever — playful, affectionate, always wagging his tail.
Of course I agreed immediately.

Her house was only twenty minutes away. But the moment I arrived, something felt wrong.

No barking.
No sounds.
Her car wasn’t in the driveway.

The spare key was still hidden under the fern pot.
I opened the door — and the air inside hit me. Heavy, stale, suffocating.
The food bowls were empty. Everything looked normal… but something wasn’t.

“Buddy?” I called out.
Silence.

I checked every room.
No dog.

Then I heard it — a soft sound, fabric shifting.
Coming from the hallway.
Coming from behind a locked door.

“Is someone in there?” I asked, my voice shaking.

A weak answer came back, barely a whisper:

“Mommy said you wouldn’t come.”

My heart froze.

“Who’s there?”
“…It’s me. Davi.”

Her five-year-old son.

My hands trembled as I tried to open the door — it was locked from the outside.
When I finally got it open, the air inside hit me like a punch.
Hot. Stale. A strong smell of urine.

Davi was on the floor, pale and thin, clutching a small stuffed dinosaur.
His face sunken, his eyes dull.

“Davi, sweetheart… how long have you been here?”

He looked up, weakly:

“Since Friday. Mommy said I was bad.”

I gathered him in my arms — he was so light he barely felt real — and rushed him to the car.
As we drove to the hospital, he broke the silence with a trembling voice:

“Mommy said… if you came… not to tell anyone.”

At the ER, doctors hurried him inside.
Severe dehydration.
Malnutrition.
He weighed less than a healthy three-year-old.

When they asked what had happened, I told them everything —
except one thing.

I didn’t say Carla’s name.

But right then, my phone buzzed.
A message from her.

“Thanks for feeding Buddy.
And Paula… don’t go snooping where you shouldn’t.
Some things are better left alone.”

A cold wave washed over me.

And in that moment — holding my phone with shaking hands — I did the hardest, most necessary thing I’ve ever done:

I reported her.
For Davi.
For the truth.
Because staying silent would have made me just as guilty as she was.