On this episode of Lost Girls, we’re remembering Carol Hill, a vibrant 20-year-old from Philadelphia who was brutally murdered in Wildwood, New Jersey, in June 1970.

Carol had traveled to the shore for a summer getaway—but instead, her body was found beneath a roller coaster, strangled and left in the sand. Over fifty years later, her killer has never been identified.

She was last seen at the Bolero Bar, speaking with an unknown man. Though there have been leads—none have brought justice.

Carol wasn’t just a victim. She was a daughter, a friend, a young woman with her whole life ahead of her. And she deserves answers.

Say her name. Carol Hill.
Because every girl deserves justice.

She was only twelve.

It was a warm Monday—August 27, 1962—when Marion Brubaker got on her bike and rode into the woods of Coventry Township, Ohio. A place she likely thought was safe. Familiar. Close to home.

But Marion never made it back.

Later that day, a 15-year-old boy stumbled upon something that would change the quiet town forever: Marion’s body. She had been strangled—her life stolen in the most brutal, senseless way imaginable.

Sixty years have passed since that devastating discovery, but Marion’s name is still whispered in the corners of Summit County. A young girl, full of life and promise, silenced far too soon—and for what?

This is not just a cold case. It’s a wound that never healed.

In this episode of Lost Girls, we revisit Marion’s story. Not just the crime, but the community, the investigation, and the enduring impact of her death. We ask the questions that still hang in the air: Who did this? Why? And why, after all these years, has no one been held accountable?

Marion Brubaker was more than a headline. She was a daughter. A classmate. A little girl with dreams—and someone took all of that away.

It’s time to remember her. To say her name out loud. To refuse to let her case fade into history.

This is "Marion’s Ride: The Girl Who Never Came Home."

Welcome to Lost Girls.

She was just 13 years old when she vanished without a trace.

In this episode of The Lost Girls, we revisit the heartbreaking case of Tracy Byrd—a bright, young girl who disappeared from Bucks County, Pennsylvania, on March 7, 1983. What began as a missing child investigation quickly grew colder over the years, with early speculation clouding the urgency of her case.

But Tracy didn’t simply run away. And four decades later, her disappearance still haunts her community—and demands answers.

This is the story of a girl lost too soon, and the silence that followed.

In this episode of Lost Girls, LaDonna Humphrey and Amy Smith explore the heartbreaking and still-unsolved murder of 15-year-old Belinda Snowden. On July 26, 1986, Belinda's body was discovered in Jefferson County, Florida, just hours after she was last seen at a small Jr. Food Store in nearby Wakulla County. It’s been 38 years—and in all that time, there have been no arrests, no convictions, and no accountability.

Belinda’s parents died without ever knowing what happened to their daughter, and her case has largely faded from the public’s memory. But on Lost Girls, her story is brought back into the light. LaDonna and Amy unpack the details of the investigation, the timeline of Belinda’s disappearance, and the devastating emotional toll on the community she left behind.

This episode is a call for renewed attention, for anyone who may remember something—even the smallest detail—to come forward. Because Belinda mattered. And she still deserves justice.

Taylor Barksdale's life was stolen in Madison County.

Her murder was brutal. Her case is unsolved. And her killer is still out there.

In this episode, we take a deeper look—into the timeline, the silence, the unanswered questions, and the systemic gaps that have left Taylor’s family without justice for far too long.

This isn’t just a story of loss.
It’s a story of neglect.
Of who gets justice—and who gets forgotten.

This is The Lost Girls.
And this is Taylor Barksdale’s story.

It was a warm September afternoon in 1985 when 16-year-old Kimberly “Kim” Simon left her home in Marcy, New York. She was headed out for a walk—planning to meet a friend at Whitesboro Junior High School. It was supposed to be a simple, familiar route along Mohawk Street.

But Kim never made it.

The next day, her body was discovered in a wooded area less than a mile from her home. She had been murdered. And in an instant, a quiet community was forever changed.

In the decades since, Kim’s case has been marked by confusion, controversy, and painful missteps. Investigators chased countless tips, wild theories—even rumors of cult activity. A man was ultimately arrested, convicted, and sentenced to 25 years to life for her murder. But nearly two decades later, that conviction was overturned—thanks to DNA evidence and the work of the Innocence Project.

For 20 years, Kim’s family believed justice had been served. Then, it was ripped away.

Now, as the 30-year anniversary of Kim’s death approaches, her loved ones are still searching for answers. And they’re not alone.

Investigators are once again asking the public for help. Maybe you heard something. Maybe you know something. Maybe, after all this time, you’re finally ready to speak.

Kim Simon deserves the truth. And her family deserves peace.

If you have any information about Kim’s murder—even something that seems small—please contact the Oneida County District Attorney’s Office at (315) 798-5575 or Crime Stoppers at (866) 313-8477.

This is The Lost Girls—and this is the story of Kimberly Simon.

On June 6, 2024, a woman named Tori Ellen Milsak vanished from Edgewood Street in Hot Springs, Arkansas. She was just 34 years old.

Tori is described as 5’6”, 125 pounds, with blonde hair and blue eyes—a familiar face in a tight-knit community. But after that early June day, she was simply… gone.

What followed was an all-too-common silence. A brief alert. A few scattered headlines. And then, like so many women before her—Tori slipped through the cracks. Her case got buried beneath bigger news, louder stories, and the casual cruelty of indifference.

Authorities noted that Tori may have been experiencing mental health challenges, a detail that should have prompted urgency—but instead, may have contributed to her case being quietly dismissed in the court of public opinion.

Tori Ellen Milsak mattered.

If you know anything about her disappearance, please contact the Hot Springs Police Department at (501) 321-6789.

She was just fifteen years old when she vanished.

On the afternoon of November 18, 2006, April Andrews walked out the door of her apartment in Pea Ridge, Arkansas with a simple plan. She told her mom she was headed to the Pea Ridge Church of the Nazarene, just down the street, to look through some clothes the church was giving away.

It was a short walk. A familiar street. A place where she should have been safe. But April never made it home. She was never seen again.

The last known sighting came from a child who said they saw April talking to someone in an older model brown pickup truck. But contrary to some reports, no one knows for certain if she ever got into the vehicle. What is certain is this: by that evening, April’s mother knew something was wrong — and reported her missing.

In the early days, her case was labeled as a runaway. That label stuck for far too long. But the more investigators looked, the more concerned they became. April hadn’t taken anything with her. She hadn’t made plans. And despite scattered, unconfirmed sightings in northwest Arkansas, there has never been any verified trace of her.

At the time of her disappearance, April was navigating more than most fifteen-year-olds should have to. She had few close friends. She was being bullied at school. And she was grieving the loss of her father — all while quietly worrying that she was a burden to the family that loved her.

Nearly two decades have passed, and April Andrews’ case remains unsolved. Her mother is still waiting for answers. Her name rarely makes headlines. But she was a daughter, a student, a young girl with dreams that should have stretched far beyond that church parking lot.

This is her story.
Because April still matters.
Because silence should never have the final word.
Because every girl deserves justice.