She wrote the perfect crime stories. Then she lived one. Agatha Christie—crime novelist, genius, and allegedly terrible driver—vanished in 1926, leaving behind a mystery so twisty, even Miss Marple would’ve thrown her knitting needles in the air and yelled, “COME ON, NOW.” Was it amnesia? Revenge? Or did she just really, really need a spa day? Buckle up, detectives. This story’s got more layers than a Victorian widow’s mourning dress.