Fifteen years old.That’s how young Cassie Compton was when she vanished.

It was a quiet Sunday — September 14, 2014 — the day after Sydney attended the Arkansas County Demolition Derby with a friend in DeWitt, Arkansas. It should have been an ordinary weekend for a teenager — full of laughs, late-night snacks, and small-town memories. Instead, it became the last day anyone ever heard from her.

No goodbye.No explanation.Just silence.

In September of 2019, Cheyenne Stannard vanished from Huntsville, Arkansas, under circumstances that raised far more questions than answers. Known for her consistent communication with family, Cheyenne's sudden silence was immediately alarming. The story offered by those closest to her didn’t add up—claims of her leaving on foot, heading to far-off states with no transportation or resources, defied logic and left loved ones desperate for clarity.

In this episode of Lost Girls, we explore the troubling details surrounding Cheyenne’s disappearance. With no confirmed sightings, no phone activity, and no contact in over four years, the case remains unsolved—and deeply unsettling. As we share Cheyenne’s story, we also amplify the voices of those still searching for her, holding onto hope and demanding the answers she deserves.

This is Lost Girls. And this is the story of Cheyenne Stannard.

Tonight’s episode of Lost Girls takes us back to 1955 Los Angeles and the mysterious disappearance of wealthy socialite Evelyn Throsby Scott. What began as an ordinary afternoon outing with her husband would become one of the earliest and most groundbreaking no-body murder cases in American history. In this episode, we trace the red flags, the conflicting stories, the disturbing physical evidence, and the financial trail that prosecutors used to prove homicide without ever finding Evelyn’s remains. It’s a story of glamour, control, deception, and the relentless pursuit of justice — even when someone tries to make a woman disappear without a trace.

In this episode of Lost Girls, hosts LaDonna Humphrey and Amy Smith take listeners back to New York City in 1976 — into the subway tunnels of lower Manhattan and the Bronx — where a 14-year-old girl vanished just five stops from home.

Cesilia Peña was a shy, responsible student who followed the rules. She wore her school uniform. She took the same train every day. And on October 6, she never made it home.

What happened between a crowded platform and a short ride toward safety remains a haunting mystery nearly fifty years later. A reported sighting. A man questioned — and later convicted of killing another child. And a family left with questions that were never answered.

This is not a story of rebellion or running away. It’s a story of a child who disappeared in plain sight — and a city full of witnesses.

We remember Cesilia because remembering is a form of justice.
And because silence should never be the final chapter.

Today on Lost Girls, we’re talking about Angel Rose Avery, a woman who disappeared from Kennett, Missouri, and whose case has remained largely untouched by time, attention, or answers.

Angel was thirty-five years old when she was last seen on September 1, 2018. She didn’t leave behind a public trail of clues or a well-documented timeline. There were no headlines that followed her disappearance, no flood of details released to the public, and no clear explanation for why she was never heard from again. Instead, what remains is something just as troubling: very little information, and a woman who seems to have slipped quietly into the margins.

Angel is described as a petite woman, around five feet tall, with brown hair and green eyes. She may change her hair color. Her ears are pierced. These are the basic facts—what little the public has been given—but they don’t explain how a person can vanish and leave behind such a small footprint.

Cases like Angel’s force us to confront uncomfortable questions. What happens when someone goes missing and there isn’t immediate urgency? What happens when there are no press conferences, no updates, and no sustained push to keep a name in the public eye? And how many answers are lost when silence becomes the default?

This episode isn’t about speculation. It’s about acknowledgment. It’s about saying Angel Rose Avery’s name out loud and refusing to let her disappearance remain invisible.

Because even when details are scarce, a missing person still matters.
And Angel Rose Avery deserves to be remembered, talked about, and found.

On today’s episode of The Lost Girls, we’re talking about Julie May Hill, a young woman whose disappearance in the summer of 1980 left behind a scene so unsettling it still raises questions more than four decades later.

Julie was just twenty-one years old when she vanished from her apartment in Duluth, Minnesota. She didn’t pack a bag. She didn’t leave a note. Her purse and belongings were still inside. Food was left cooking on the stove. The door to her apartment stood open, and her two Doberman pinschers were left behind, as if Julie had stepped out expecting to return within minutes—but never did.

Years laterhere after her disappearance, investigators would uncover a far darker story involving a troubled relationship marked by domestic violence, a confession to her killing, and a conviction that still failed to bring the one thing her family has waited for all these years: Julie’s remains.

Julie May Hill has never been found.

Her mother died without answers. Her family continues to search. And the question that lingers is not just what happened to Julie—but how someone can confess to causing a death, serve time, and still leave a woman missing, unnamed, and unrecovered.

On this episode of The Lost Girls Podcast, we’re telling the story of a woman who seems to have slipped quietly out of sight—leaving behind questions that were never answered and a family still searching decades later.

Her name was Delores Marie Whiteman, known to those who loved her as Lolly.

Delores was a Native woman born on the Standing Buffalo Dakota First Nation in Saskatchewan. She was 42 years old when she was last seen. Near-sighted, often wearing glasses, remembered for her wide smile—and marked by distinctive tattoos and a birthmark just below her nose—Delores was not invisible. And yet, somewhere between the late 1970s and January 1, 1987, she disappeared.

Family members heard conflicting stories. Vancouver. Toronto. The Northwest Territories. Seattle. A man she was traveling with. A visit “from California.” Her last confirmed ties placed her in western Canada, but she was eventually reported missing in Regina, Saskatchewan. Years later, the Edmonton Police would open a case—long after critical time had already passed.

Tonight, we’re walking through what is known, what was overlooked, and what questions still linger in the disappearance of Delores “Lolly” Whiteman—because missing women deserve to be spoken about, remembered, and fought for.

She is not just a name on a file.
She is one of the lost girls.

On August 17, 2018, the Anchorage Police Department opened a case that would ultimately expose one of the most disturbing crimes in Alaska’s recent history.

It began with a Crime Stoppers tip that was impossible to dismiss.

A woman named Alicia Youngblood contacted police with a chilling claim: a man she knew had confessed to murdering a woman in Anchorage — and had shown her a video of the killing. She identified him as Brian Steven Smith.

That afternoon, Youngblood walked into police headquarters, visibly shaken but determined. She met with detectives and carefully described what she had witnessed. Despite her fear, she handed over her phone and gave investigators full permission to extract its data. She was not protecting herself — she was trying to protect others. She wanted this man stopped.

What followed would uncover a case far darker than anyone imagined.

The Lost Girls is sharing Episode Three of the Harm Done Podcast to honor the courage of those who come forward, to expose the systems that allow violence to continue, and to remind us that sometimes justice begins with a single person choosing to speak.

We strongly encourage everyone listening to also follow Amber Batts and support her ongoing investigative work at:👉 ⁠https://theharmdone.substack.com/⁠

Thank you, Amber, for your courage, your persistence, and your commitment to the truth.

We are sharing something deeply important — and we want to give full credit to the journalist who made this possible.

This episode features Alicia’s first full interview with the Anchorage Police Department, originally published by investigative writer Amber Batts on November 7, 2025.

The recording is an unedited, two-hour interview in which Alicia sat down with APD, turned over her phone, and told investigators everything she knew. Her only goal was simple: to get them to take her information seriously and look into the man she believed was responsible for murder.

This interview exists within a much larger and deeply troubling context.

The case of the Alaskan killer Brian Steven Smith — a white, South African-born man — stands as a chilling illustration of systemic failures within the Anchorage Police Department and the Alaskan justice system. His crimes reveal a pattern of negligence, dismissed warnings, and a profound disregard for the safety of marginalized communities.

From the mishandling of evidence, to the lack of accountability, to the repeated failure to listen to women who came forward, to the disinterest in protecting vulnerable populations — this case exposes the urgent need for policy reform and a fundamental overhaul in how justice is approached and delivered.

This interview matters because of what it shows:
how hard women had to fight to be heard,
how many warnings went ignored,
and how long danger was allowed to persist.

We strongly encourage everyone listening to also follow Amber Batts and support her ongoing investigative work at:
👉 https://theharmdone.substack.com/

Thank you, Amber, for your courage, your persistence, and your commitment to the truth.

This episode of Lost Girls is different.

So important, in fact, that we did not record an introduction.

We did not add commentary.

We did not interrupt.

We are sharing the work done by Amber Batts on the Harm Done Podcast.

The Alaskan killer, Brian Steven Smith, a white South African-born man, is a chilling clear illustration of systemic failures within the Anchorage Police Department (APD) and the Alaskan justice system, revealing a pattern of negligence, dismissed warnings, and a profound disregard for the safety of marginalized communities.

From the mishandling of evidence, the lack of accountability, the failure to listen to women who come forward, to the disinterest in protecting vulnerable populations, all highlight the urgent need for policy reform and an overhaul in the approach to justice.

Source: https://theharmdone.substack.com/

This episode of Lost Girls is different.

So important, in fact, that we did not record an introduction.
We did not add commentary.
We did not interrupt.

We are letting the evidence speak for itself.

On October 18, 2019, Anchorage Police Detectives Brendan Lee and David Cordie interrogated Ian Calhoun about his relationship with Brian Steven Smith—the now-convicted serial killer responsible for the murders of Alaska Native women Kathleen Jo Henry and Veronica Abouchuk.

That interrogation happened in two parts: first at Calhoun’s home, then later at the Anchorage Police Department.

By that point, Smith had already been arrested for Kathleen Jo Henry’s murder. During questioning, he confessed to killing Veronica Abouchuk the year before. What investigators needed to understand next was chillingly simple:

How much did Ian Calhoun know—and when did he know it?

According to interrogation footage, reports, and audio recordings, Calhoun was not a casual acquaintance. He was a friend. A drinking buddy. Someone Brian Smith trusted enough to communicate with openly. In early September 2019, that trust took a dark turn.

Calhoun told detectives that Smith met him at Forsythe Park and showed him what appeared to be a body in the back of his truck—covered by a tarp. Calhoun claimed he brushed it off as a sex doll, but later admitted he had a gut feeling it wasn’t. After seeing it, he didn’t call police. He didn’t leave. He didn’t confront Smith.

They went drinking.

Later, Smith came to Calhoun’s house.

Calhoun admitted to deleting text messages and an entire messaging app after Smith’s arrest—messages that included disturbing images and conversations. He acknowledged knowing more than he initially admitted. And yet, despite what he saw, what he deleted, and what he knew, Ian Calhoun has never been charged.

Under Alaska law, failure to report a violent crime against an adult is treated as a violation—punishable by little more than a $500 fine. A penalty that reflects just how little the system values silence when the victim is Indigenous, marginalized, or vulnerable.

This episode is not commentary.
It is not opinion.
It is documentation.

We believe it is essential for the public to hear this in full, without framing, without interruption, and without distraction.

Because Kathleen Jo Henry deserved better.
So did Veronica Abouchuk.
And silence should never be safer than doing the right thing.

To learn more and follow ongoing advocacy, visit “Arrest Ian Calhoun NOW” on Facebook.

Source: https://theharmdone.substack.com/