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Mom became a widow for the first time when she was still a teenager, before she was even done growing breasts and hips.
Angie—technically my half-sister
The most helpful was Oliver’s younger brother, Mark.
And I was born six months later. To my sister’s uncle, to my mother’s brother-in-law, and to the man who would drive clear through a covered bridge in some twenty-six years. My dad.
my half-brother
Back when they first met, my dad had a drug problem. A wife, a kid, and a drug problem.
Mom thought he was too soft, too sympathetic. She thought Angie was getting caught on purpose, so that she could get his attention.
There are moments with this mostly-shit job where you get to experience a heady contact high from watching young people realize that their whole lives are ahead of them.
I wonder if everyone has this problem—the inability to accurately remember their own face.
I think of how you never realize your parents are young until they’re not anymore.
Angie’s erratic uncle/stepfather (51M) quickly became a target for police. Clare vouched for him, but he has a strange history (look him up: Mark Angstrom). Angie’s journal entries, which were leaked to the press, painted a picture of domestic turmoil as well.
Here’s the story—the one I’ve told a million times: I was the last person to see Angie before she disappeared.
One hour ago, someone named ForgetItJake posted: my personal email address, cell phone number, street address, and faculty picture. He doxxed me.
Holden McGill was identified as the killer of Natalie Morris, whose burned body was found in the woods of Alabama in 1986.
Marlee was a high school junior when she went missing four years ago in Sacramento.
Marlee had been living with her stepdad’s estranged daughter and the daughter’s family.
Then, just yesterday, it came out that the stepdad, now dead of a heart attack, had abused Marlee and his older daughter before her. That Marlee told her mom, and her mom did nothing. Called Marlee a liar, called her a slut.
I discover, in my digging, that Dad gave up around Christmas.
There is a monthly withdrawal that neither of us can figure out. It goes back as far as all the statements we have, which is the last year or so. Two thousand dollars. Every month, like clockwork, my check would hit their account for $1,800, and then two days later, my dad would withdraw $2,000 in cash.
It’s for ten hours of psychic counseling by phone. There is a name at the bottom that I’m sure can’t be real: Celeste Starling.
She stayed up all night talking to god only knows who. On AIM. On MySpace. Angie was very online at a time when that made you a certain type of weirdo.
I remember Angie’s old screenname, because she and Mom fought about it: BigRed22.
When someone is confessing, the best thing you can say is nothing. Let them fill the silence.

