The night Frezja Matisse Baker disappeared did not begin with fear.

It began like so many ordinary evenings do—phone calls answered, plans made, the quiet reassurance of staying connected to the people who matter most. On December 4, Frezja was in touch with her family. She told them she was on her way to see them. It was a simple promise, the kind no one thinks twice about.

She never arrived.

For hours, then days, her family waited for a message that didn’t come. Calls went straight to voicemail. Texts remained unread. At first, there was confusion—then concern—and finally, a growing dread that settled deep in their chests.

This wasn’t like Frezja.

She was thirty-one years old. A mother. A presence. Someone who did not disappear without a word, especially not when her two-year-old son was waiting somewhere in the world, still too young to understand why his mother wasn’t coming back.

“She would never just leave him,” her family kept saying. And everyone who knew her agreed.

Frezja’s life revolved around her child. Friends describe her as devoted, attentive, fiercely protective in the quiet, everyday way mothers are. Her days were shaped around naps, meals, routines, small joys that feel insignificant to outsiders but make up the entire universe of parenthood.

That is why the silence was so terrifying.

Investigators would later piece together the last known movements of that night. Frezja was seen in the Sugar Creek Road area. Surveillance footage showed her later at a convenience store shortly before 10 p.m. She was not alone. Authorities believe she was with a man known by the nickname “Nuna.”

What they spoke about.
Where they were going.
Why she was with him.

Those answers remain unclear.

At the time she vanished, Frezja was driving a grayish-blue 2004 Honda Accord with a temporary paper tag. As days passed with no sign of her or the vehicle, her family’s worry turned into anguish. They reported her missing, pleading for help, urging anyone who might have seen her to come forward.

Posters went up.
Social media posts spread.
Strangers shared her photo, hoping recognition might spark a lead.

Every hour that passed without news felt heavier than the last.

For families of missing people, time stretches in unbearable ways. Mornings bring hope that today will be the day. Nights bring fear that answers, when they come, may not be the ones prayed for. Sleep becomes shallow. Phones are never set down.

And then comes the call no one wants.

After days of searching, Frezja Matisse Baker was found deceased.

Her family confirmed the news, turning fear into heartbreak in a single sentence. Instead of welcoming her home, they were now faced with the unimaginable—planning a funeral for a woman who should have had decades left to live.

A mother who should have watched her son grow.

Law enforcement has not yet released full details surrounding the discovery. The investigation remains active, focused on reconstructing the timeline between the last sighting on December 4 and the moment Frezja was found.

Detectives are reviewing surveillance footage. They are retracing steps. They are asking questions that feel painfully late to the people who loved her.

Particular attention remains on locating and identifying the man known as “Nuna,” who was reportedly with Frezja the night she disappeared. Authorities have not said what role, if any, he may have played. For now, his name hangs in the air as one of many unanswered questions.

Questions are often all families are left with.

Why that night?
Why didn’t she arrive?
What happened in the hours no one can see?

For Frezja’s loved ones, grief is not abstract. It is immediate and physical. It is the ache of knowing her son will grow up with memories shaped by stories instead of moments. It is the pain of replaying that last conversation, wishing they had said more, asked more, held on longer.

Friends remember Frezja as warm and present. Someone who showed up. Someone whose laughter came easily. Someone who mattered deeply to the people around her, not because she was extraordinary in headlines—but because she was extraordinary in the quiet spaces of everyday life.

Her death has left a hole that cannot be filled.

Police are urging anyone who may have seen Frezja, her car, or who has information about the man she was last seen with to come forward. Even the smallest detail could matter. Even a moment someone dismissed at the time could now hold significance.

Because justice does not arrive on its own.

It requires voices.
It requires memory.
It requires refusing to let a life be reduced to a missing-person notice and a final update.

For Frezja’s family, the priority now is answers. Not rumors. Not speculation. Answers grounded in truth. They want accountability. They want clarity. They want to know what happened to a daughter, a sister, a friend, a mother who did not choose to leave her child behind.

Her son will not remember this moment. He is too young. But he will live with its consequences every day of his life. And one day, when he asks about his mother, the people who loved her will tell him who she was—not how she died, but how she lived.

They will tell him she loved him fiercely.
That she showed up.
That she mattered.

This case is still unfolding. Investigators continue their work behind the scenes, moving carefully, deliberately. But for those closest to Frezja Matisse Baker, the world has already changed forever.

A woman who said she was on her way never arrived.

And now, a family waits—not for her return, but for truth, for justice, and for a way to carry forward the love she left behind.

Because Frezja was more than a missing person.

She was a mother.
She was loved.
And her life deserves to be remembered—and answered for—with dignity.