A (6:12)

Peace out. Spring of 2023 was a turning point in more ways than one. Around April, just weeks after reconnecting with Laurie, I moved home to live with my dad. Things just weren't working at that time. Living with Dustin. It wasn't a breakup, but I needed space. I needed to pour everything into my mom's case. To film, to post, to go viral. And Dustin wasn't on social media like I was. And honestly, my constant recording was wearing on him. So we chose to live separately and it ended up being the best decision for us. That spring gave me two things I desperately support from Lori and stability with my dad. It grounded me, it sharpened my focus, and it gave me the strength to keep pushing this case forward. After the whirlwind spring of 2023, with all the podcast invitations and reconnecting with Lori, everything slowed down. There was only one more other podcast interview that Morbid Matters. I remember it specifically because we recorded it on June 1st, my mom's birthday, which made it feel like a full circle moment. That summer, I was working full time at the animal hospital. My days were busy, messy and loud. But every free hour still went into pushing my mom's case. Writing, posting, sending emails, hoping for movement. By August, the momentum had slowed. The season felt like it was drifting into a standstill. Summer melted into fall and fall into winter. Then In December of 2023, something changed. Something shifted. It felt like a light switching on. One night I went to bed after watching Home Alone, the movie I loved as a kid. And the song Carol of the Bell stuck in my head. I woke up at 1am the same time my mother died. And without even moving from the edge of my bed, I opened my phone, hit record, and started pointing up in time with the music. Every time my hand came up, the screen cut to a cover art of a podcast that had covered my mom's case that year. It was simple. No script, just me, the bells, and a gesture. I uploaded it that night, and when I woke up the next morning, for the first time, a post about my mom went truly viral. 2.6 million views. That video cracked something open. And with Those views came attention. People who had never heard my name before were suddenly commenting, sharing, stitching, and duetting. Podcasts were tagging me. Journalists were reaching out. Creators wanted to collaborate. For the first time since starting my TikTok channel, it felt like the world was finally paying attention. And then something happened that I could hardly believe. That viral video caught the attention of Morbid, one of the biggest true crime podcasts in the world. They were tagged in my post, and to my shock, they actually responded. They told me that they'd love to cover my mom's case. I held onto those words, like oxygen. For a year and nine months, I carried that hope with me, waiting, hoping and knowing that someday Morbid would bring my mom's story to millions. But just when I thought it couldn't get any better, it did. Only two weeks later, I went viral again, this time with the video that has become my signature hook. I am the daughter of a murdered woman. That video was born out of an ordinary day. There was nothing glamorous about it. The weather was nice, so I opened my windows, and I was doing what anyone else does on a day off. Laundry, dishes, scooping poo. And somewhere between folding clothes and scrubbing plates, I felt a wave of inspiration. I decided that every time I finished a chore, I would set up my phone and record a short clip. Every time I said something small but powerful about my mom's case and about what had happened and about who she was and. And about how it still impacts me today. By the end of the day, I had a string of clips that told a story. I pieced them together, gave it the simplest caption I could think of. I am the daughter of a murdered woman. And I posted it. I didn't expect much, but that video exploded. It racked up 13.2 million views. 13.2 million. This one video brought me 80,000 new followers almost overnight. 80,000 new people who now knew my mom's name, my story, and my fight for justice. It wasn't just numbers on a screen. It felt like momentum, like the ground was shifting under my feet. The first viral video had opened doors, but this second one blew them wide open. Suddenly, podcasts weren't just interested, they were pouring in. My inbox became a flood of invitations. Killer queens. 50 words for murder. The Murder Diaries. I miss her. I Scream Queens. The process for Healing Fearful friends. Murder Mystery and Besties. Crime, Wine and chaos. Speculating wildly about crime. True crime with Ken's Generation Y Sinister States. The Housewives did it. True Crime and wine with Sherilyn Dale, murder and mimosas. And that's just scratching the surface, dude. Dozens more reached out every day. I was fielding messages, trying to figure out what was real and what was sustainable, what would actually move my mom's case forward. I wasn't just chasing attention for the sake of it. I was chasing something bigger. Mainstream coverage. A chance to put my mom's name into spaces that had ignored her for three decades. And then, at the very beginning of January 2024, it happened. I got a documentary offer. For the first time, the possibility of my mom's story being told on the big screen the way it deserved to be told was real. The talks about a documentary didn't suddenly appear in January 2024, though. The seeds were planted months earlier. It all started with a connection I made through another podcast, Mombies. They were supportive of me from the beginning. And one day they introduced me to a small studio out of St. Louis. That studio wanted to take my mom's case on. At first, it felt surreal. A production studio, even a small one, was saying, we want to cover your mom's story. I can't even describe how much that meant to me. For 30 years, this case had been brushed aside, minimized, treated as if it didn't matter. And now there was someone saying it mattered enough to build a documentary around it. I wanted to scream it from the rooftops. But when I look back on those early conversations, I see just how casual they were. There were no contracts, no paperwork. Everything was verbal. Over the phone, the director told me if I agreed, I couldn't do any other cinematic works. No other documentaries, no other projects. At that time, in my excitement, I barely even registered what he was saying. I honestly don't even remember him telling me that I was just so hungry for someone to validate my mom's case and that it was worth telling that I agreed without even thinking. So backtrack now to December of 2023. My TikToks are exploding. Millions of people are seeing my content. My mom's name is now trending. Everything felt bigger than it ever been before. Suddenly, the documentary that had been in loose, casual talks for months was green lit. They started moving around like it was real. Booking plane tickets, scheduling travel, lining up the staff. And for the first time, I started to believe that this was really happening. This was my moment. This was my mom's moment. And then, just three days before I was supposed to leave, everything shifted again. You notice how I like to say shifted? I'm sorry. Ends up in my scripts a lot Another production company reached out to me. Unlike the first, this wasn't a casual phone call. This wasn't just a let's see if we can make it work. They wanted to sign me. They wanted to put it in writing with an actual document, with contracts and signatures. This time it felt serious, professional, legitimate. They asked me the question I had been avoiding. Do you have a contract with anyone else? And the truth was, no, I didn't. Everything with the first studio had been very relaxed, very verbal that I never really thought to protect myself with paperwork. I told them the truth, that there was no contract. And immediately they said, good, we want to sign you. We want to make something with you. They talked about doing a multi episode series, something that would dive deeper, spread wider, last longer. Not just a single film, but something expansive. And in that moment, how could I say no? After all those years of silence, of being ignored, suddenly two different studios wanted me. Two different studios wanted her. I wanted them both. I wanted everyone, anyone, to tell my mom's story to me. One documentary wasn't enough, one outlet wasn't enough. This case deserves the whole world's attention. But out of respect, I contacted the original director right away. I told him I had signed with another production company, or I had told him that I wanted to sign with another production company and that's when the hammer dropped. He told me flat out I couldn't do both. It was his documentary or the other one, not both. He explained that documentaries aren't like podcast. You can't just tell the same story in a dozen places at once. You can't spread yourself around. It's exclusive, it's one or it's the other. I can't even describe the panic that that set in. It was like my chest caved in. Here I was on the brink of boarding a plane, about to step into something I wanted for decades. And now I was being forced into a impossible choice, like a soapy's choice. I didn't want to choose, I wanted both. I wanted everyone. Talking about my mom. I started spiraling. Full blown panic attacks, shaking, crying. I picked up the phone. I called the director. I texted him, desperate for him to see my side. But he didn't answer. The silence broke me. I sat there with the phone in my hand, tears running down my face, feeling like I was being suffocated by my own hope. Later he texted me saying that he'd call the next day, that there were no hard feelings if I chose to go the other direction. But the damage was already done by then. I knew deep down, if he couldn't pick up the phone when I was crumbling, he wasn't the person I needed in my corner. For hours, my mind spun. I wanted both documentaries. Still, I needed both documentaries. But I was staring at it. Ultimatum. Choose the small studio or choose the bigger one. I kept thinking, why can't my mom's case be in both? Why can't it be everywhere? Why does justice have to be limited to one lens, one project, one company's control? After days of anxiety and tears and blowing up at everyone around me, after my body felt wrung out from panic, I realized maybe this was happening for a reason. Maybe I wasn't supposed to settle for small. Maybe I was supposed to step into something bigger. So I pulled out. Four days later, I signed with the second production company. Together, we built a pitch deck. Together we crafted a vision of a multi episode series. Something that could truly honor the complexity of my mom's life and her case. And then they pitched it to major studios. It wasn't just a documentary anymore. It was the possibility of a series, a national stage. The kind of coverage my mom has deserved since 1993. And honestly, what would anyone else have done in my shoes? If you're given the choice between small, relaxed verbal agreement and a chance at something bigger, something real, something written in ink, wouldn't you take it? By February 2024, rolling into March and springtime, it felt like momentum was still building. And then something happened that I thought would change everything. I was contacted by a producer for Ashley Banfield. Now, for anyone who doesn't know, Ashley Banfield isn't just another true crime podcaster or a small time journalist. She's a nationally recognized television host, someone who has interviewed some of the biggest names in the world. Her platform could put my mom's story in front of millions of viewers at once. So when her producers reached out to me directly, I couldn't fucking believe it. The message was simple. They wanted to cover my mom's case. And in that moment, all I felt was relief. I responded right away and told them, yes, yes, I would love to do this. I'll make myself available whenever you need me. At first, it felt real. It felt like it was happening. The producer and I, we began exchanging texts, little back and forth messages about timing, about scheduling, about what the segment might look like. Every buzz of my phone, every new notification, I would grab it with my heart racing, hoping this would be the message that gave me the green light. But as the weeks turned into months, something changed. Nothing was ever Set in stone. I wasn't being scheduled. I was being strung along. I didn't realize it at the time because I was so excited, so hopeful. But looking back now, it was clear I was being kept on the back burner. This went on for months. And then months became a year, and then a year turned into nearly two years. Two years of checking my phone. Two years of waiting for confirmation. Two years of imagining what it would feel like to finally sit across from Ashley Banfield and say my mom's name out loud on national television. Two years of telling myself, just hold on for one more day. And here's the thing. I know for them, it's just content. I know that they have to fill time slots and juggle cases. But what they don't realize is this. These stories are not just entertainment. These are people's lives. And when they reach out to a daughter like me, who's been fighting for three decades to get her mom's case heard, and they dangle that kind of opportunity in front of me, they aren't just filling airtime, they're raising and then crushing hope. Because for me, that wasn't just another interview. That was the one chance in a million for people to hear my mom's story, maybe for the very first time. And for nearly two years, I believed it was coming. But it never did. The other thing that happened in this same time frame that same spring was something I could never have prepared myself for. I was at work in the middle of an ordinary day when I glanced down at my phone. Just a quick check between tasks. Nothing unusual. But then I saw a notification that made my stomach drop. It was a friend request on Facebook from a name I recognized instantly. Russell Peterson. For a moment, I froze. I just stared at the screen, my brain struggling to process what I was looking at. The man who killed my mother, the man who tore my family apart, who has haunted every single day of my life since 1993, has just sent me a fucking friend request. At first, all I felt was pure rage. Pure, unfiltered fucking rage. The audacity, the gall. How dare he? As if we were old high school buddies reconnecting, as if we were acquaintances who had lost touch. As if he hadn't brutally murdered my mother. My hands were shaking. My chest was pounding. The tears started burning in my eyes. I was so angry, so upset, so blindsided, that for a split second, I actually thought about leaving work right then and there, just walking out the door. Because how could I possibly finish a normal day after that? But then something Shifted again. My favorite word. I don't know what part of me surfaced. Maybe the investigative side, maybe the survivor side. But I suddenly saw it differently. I thought, wait a second. Maybe this is an opportunity. If Russell Peterson wanted to play this game, if he wanted to pretend like we were friends, then fine. Let's see what he has to show me. Let's see what I can find out. So I did something I never imagined I would do. I accepted his friend request. Not for long. Just briefly. Just long enough to slip past the door he had cracked open. And in that moment, I wondered if he even realized what he had done. Did he understand that by sending me that request, he had given me access to his Facebook page? Did he know that for the first time, I could look directly into the life that he was living now? So I clicked through. And what I found wasn't what I expected. It was sad. It was empty. His page was barren. Hardly any friends, no real connections, no activity that mattered. Just a shell of a social media presence and a shell of a man. It struck me then in a way that almost startled me. The person, the man who had once controlled my life with fear, the man who had once held so much power was nothing. No platform, no voice, no audience. Why was he trying to taunt me? Was he reaching out for some twisted version of friendship? Was it his way of saying he was sorry? Was it a prelude to a confession? I don't know. And I may never know. All I know is that for a brief moment, I had access to the man who killed my mother. And what I found there was emptiness. No friends, no connections, nothing to cling to. And that in itself told me everything I needed to know. So I unfriended him, closed that door as quickly as I had opened it, and I walked away from the experience with one takeaway. Russell Peterson is a sad, hollow man, reaching out into the void for reasons I will probably never understand. By the summer of 2024, the circle around my mom's story began to widen in ways I never expected. People from her past, people who had known her, people who worked alongside her, started finding me online. It began the year before, when Lori Swift reached out after hearing Erin cover my mom's case on sipping on some crime. Lori had been one of my mom's closest friends, someone who carried memories I never heard before. And then, one by one, others began to appear. Cheryl Mandel and a few of my mom's old co workers from Pietro's, the restaurant where she worked. With each new voice came new stories, new Glimpses of the woman my mom was before I was born. But along with the memories came rumors, whispers that I had never heard growing up. The most persistent one was that my mom might have had an older child, A baby born before me, a baby given up for adoption. I remember the first time I heard it, I didn't know what to think. Could it be possible? Did I have a sibling out there somewhere? And if so, why had this been kept for me all my life? When I brought the question to my Aunt Wendy, she was firm. She told me there had never been a pregnancy in 1976, but it ended in an abortion. No baby was ever born. That was the story she held to, and she repeated it with certainty. But then there was Lori Swift. She was just as adamant in the opposite direction. She swore that my mom had gone to Chicago, carried the pregnancy to term, and placed the baby for adoption. And then there was Cheryl, who lived in Chicago at that time. She told me she never saw my mom pregnant. She was never aware of a pregnancy. It was all fragments of a piece of a puzzle that didn't quite fit together. And I was left in the middle, holding these conflicting accounts, not knowing what to believe. Was there a baby? Was there someone out there who shared my mom's blood? Who had been living a parallel life this whole time without ever knowing the truth? I wanted answers. I wanted clarity. And I wanted something more solid than stories being told decades after the fact. So in the summer of 2024, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I turned to science. I submitted my DNA through ancestry. I thought, if there's a sibling out there, if there's a baby out there that's born in 1976, maybe this will prove it. After the results came back, I stared at them with my heart pounding. And then I saw it. I did have a brother. And for a few dizzying moments, my mind spun with possibilities. Could this be him? Could this be the child everyone had whispered about? Could my mom really have had a baby and given him away? Thoughts were overwhelming, and for a few minutes, I let myself imagine what that would mean. That there was somebody out there all this time. That I had a brother who shared my mother's face, her blood, and her story. But then I reached out. I contacted him. And as we talked and as we compared details, the truth began to unfold. This wasn't my mother's child. This wasn't the baby from 1976. My brother, yes, but from the other side of my family. This was my father's son. It was still a discovery and it was still meaningful. But it wasn't the answer to the rumor. It didn't solve the mystery. That question whether my mom had a baby before me. It remains hanging in the air, suspended between the certainty of my aunt Wendy's words and the conviction of my mom's friend Laurie. The summer I found out I had a brother was already overwhelming. And then something else happened that I'll never forget. Out of the blue, I got what sounded like a once in a lifetime chance. A major true crime youtuber wanted to develop a documentary about my mom's case. When I heard the name, my stomach flipped. This creator has millions of subscribers and can put forgotten stories in front of an audience big enough to move mountains. I was starstruck. I said yes immediately. It wasn't just the size of the platform. I was told that a veteran advocate that I trust, someone who has walked this road and knows how to protect families, would also be involved. That made this whole thing feel safe and possible. A kickoff zoom was scheduled. I expected to see the advocate there steadying me. The day before, they had reached out and they told her that she was no longer on the project anymore. It knocked me off balance and I told her how much I needed her. And she reminded me gently, your voice matters. Speak up if that's how you feel. So I decided I'd ask directly. When the zoom started and my camera came on, there was the creator right in front of me. My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear my own voice. Still, I said in the first several minutes that I wanted my advocate included. The response was a misunderstanding. They said we agreed to keep moving forward, and I ended the call. Committed but shaky. I told myself I never wanted to feel that intimidated again. Afterward, I asked my advocate to serve as my point of contact for this production. Not to be difficult, but because I was overwhelmed. She knows the terrain. She's my friend. And I wanted to focus on telling my mom's story while someone I trust handled logistics. The email back from the production team was polished, but underneath, it felt defensive and controlling. They minimized my trauma as miscommunication shifted blame onto the advocate, told me that other families had no problem with their process, and wrapped it in an ultimatum about trust. They then pulled back the big offer, the documentary. I sat with that for a couple days, replaying it and wondering what I did wrong. Then, on the drive home from work one night, I decided I couldn't stay quiet. I pulled out my phone and I recorded a video message to that creator. It was raw and it was vulnerable. And I said how much it hurt that a documentary could vanish because I was too intimidated to speak directly and how empty it felt to hear how amazing relationship with victims families you have when in the moment we needed help. The door was closed. To her credit, the creator reached out. Afterwards, she apologized for the miscommunication and said maybe we could still do something together. Not a documentary, but possibly a podcast or a video episode. She explained that her show reaches millions and could still make an impact. I told the truth. Whatever coverage you're willing to do, I'll take. I need help. A few days later, another email arrived, this time with an attachment. A contract. Now, I've been on dozens of podcasts and never once have I been asked to sign paperwork just to appear as a guest. That alone gave me pause. But what stopped me cold was a non disparagement clause language that said I couldn't speak negatively about the creator or show. I had to ask my advocate what that even meant. When I understood, my stomach dropped. Why would I need to sign away my right to criticize someone simply to tell my mother's story? If your reputation and your relationship with families are so strong, why require them to promise they'll never speak critically of you? More than a year later, I still don't know why that contract was sent. I don't know why a non disparagement clause was necessary for a single interview. What I do know is how it made me feel shaken, smaller, and unsure of who I can trust in a space that says it centers around victims families. That documentary will never go through. Looking back, that summer was a rollercoaster. The shock of being approached by this huge platform and the hurt of watching the project collapse. The disbelief of being handed what felt less like an invitation and more like a gag order. It was disappointing, but clarifying. Not every opportunity is what it seems. Not everyone who says they want to help is prepared to walk with you when it's hard. Here's what is certain. No matter who stays or who walks away, I'm still here. And I'm still telling my mom's story. And no canceled project can take that away. That summer, while all of this was happening behind the scenes, my life shifted in another way. There's my favorite word again. I started teaching. Suddenly, my days were full of lesson plans and classrooms, and the hours I could devote to casework slowed down a little. I was still posting every day, still chasing the algorithm, still trying to keep the momentum alive. But the truth is, the viral lightning didn't strike again. I waited for the TV producers who had promised me, soon, soon we'll have a studio sign. Soon your mother's story will finally reach the national stage. But soon stretched into weeks and then months, and before I knew it, all of those promises had dissolved into more sile. Still, I didn't stop. Every single day, I made TikToks. I threw myself into trends, trying to ride whatever wave was floating across the platform that week. I made long monologues. I tried series formats. I even experimented with storytelling styles like Risa Teresa. Do you remember the who the Fuck did I Marry miniseries that like took TikTok by storm? Yeah, I did that. Anything to catch attention to breakthrough. To pull people back to my mom's case, I built my own. I created a Daughter of a murdered woman miniseries. 20 something episodes, each around 10 minutes long. I poured myself into those videos, hoping that if just one struck lightning in a bottle, maybe one of those will. But nothing really ever caught fire like the original post from December of 2023. Nothing has come close. I felt like I was flailing in an endless void of social media, screaming into the universe and waiting for someone, anyone to answer. And while I was struggling to keep up with content behind the curtain, things were unraveling. Multiple documentary projects were falling through News Nation, which I had hoped might elevate my mom's case. Pulled back doors I thought were open, slammed shut, and the silence grew louder. By the end of the summer, I was discouraged in a way I hadn't been since I started this journey. For a while it felt like nothing was ever going to happen. Like no one wanted to talk to me anymore. Like the momentum I had built, the energy of those viral moments had all slipped through my fingers. And all I was left with was the sinking feeling that it was all falling apart. When I was convinced no one was ever going to listen again. That's when the Texas dad lawyer fell into my life. I don't even remember exactly how it happened. I don't know if it was a mutual follower or a follower of mine or somebody who tagged him or one of his who stumbled across me. I don't know. But somehow, somewhere in that swirl of social media connections, we were linked. And Mike Hansen got curious enough to reach out. He asked me for a copy of my mom's case file and of course I sent it immediately. Within days, he had not only read it, but he was already making videos about it. And he didn't just make one video. He made a miniseries. Like five to six Separate videos where he pored over my mom's case with a lawyer perspective. And here's the thing about Mike Hansen. He's not just a lawyer. He's been on both sides of the courtroom. He's been a prosecutor and a defense attorney. He understands the system from every angle. He. So when he dissected my mom's case, when he spoke on it, he wasn't speaking as a grieving family member. He was speaking as a professional, as someone with the kind of credibility and training that couldn't be brushed off. And in those videos, for the first time, I felt something I hadn't felt in 30 years. Validation. Real, undeniable validation. For so long, my family and I had been screaming into the void, saying the same thing over and over, only to be ignored, dismissed, or told that we didn't understand. But now, finally, here was someone with a law degree, someone with courtroom experience, someone who had absolutely nothing to gain, looking at the same evidence and saying the exact same thing that we had been saying all along that meant everything. Mike wasn't being paid. He wasn't doing this for clout. He was just doing it because, in his words, it didn't add up. And for the first time, it felt like the world was hearing us. Through his voice, Mike Hanson became instrumental in pushing me forward. His analysis didn't just validate my family, it reignited something in me. It gave me a renewed sense of urgency, strength, and a justification to keep going. Harder, louder, bigger. For so long, Sarah had been nudging me, telling me I needed to start a podcast. And now, with Mike's voice echoing the same truths I had been saying all along, I finally believed it was time. So I went to my dad and I asked him a question that, looking back, feels like the beginning of everything. Could I turn my closet into a podcast recording studio? If I had to name 2024 in three words, it would be this. Contracts, clauses, and zero coverage. Every door I thought was open wasn't. Every promise stretched into waiting, and the waiting stretched into silence. I kept handing people my mother's story with two hands, and somehow it slipped through their fingers. And then through mine, I hit a wall. And on the other side of that wall was a decision. Help myself. So I talked to my dad, asked him if I could turn my closet into a recording studio, and he said yes. We measured shelves and foam, argued about mic placement, and laughed about how we could be professional podcast studio builders. It all started In December of 2024, almost a year after that first viral moment, a year Later, I stopped waiting for permission and I started building a room where my mother could be heard. That's what this show is, a room we built when the doors wouldn't open. I planned to have Mike Hansen on this episode, but I couldn't iron out the technical kinks in time and I refused to waste his time or yours. So here's the plan. Next episode opens with Mike Hanson, his thoughts on my mom's case, what he sees and what he can still do. After that, I'll take you into the build how my dad and I turned a closet into a studio and I'll bring this series to a close. If you've felt the weight of today's story, here's your part. Keep Stacy's name moving. Share this episode with one person. If you knew her in Downers Grove, Phoenix or Sedona, or if you knew Russell Peterson, send what you remember. Even small details matter to poppykilledmommymail.com if you have any information about the death of my mother, please contact the Sedona Police Department. The information will be in the show Notes. Please contact the Yavapai County Attorney's Office and tell them to put Please present my mom's case before a grand jury of our peers. Also contact the Red Rock News. Tell them the community is watching, asks for balanced coverage, not just one sided. And if you work in media, if you know someone who does podcast, YouTube journalist, blogger, creator of any size, please share the story. If you have one follower or a million, I want to talk to you. It helps. Contact me directly@poppykilledmommymail.com and if you work in media, large platform or small, meet families where they are. Say yes or say no, but don't leave us in the limbo of maybe. To everyone who has helped me build this room, my dad, Melissa. To everyone who has taken the time to listen to this story, thank you. I am tired of waiting. I am done with permission and I'll do it all myself and I'll take you guys along with me. I'm Nikki. I'm the daughter of a murdered woman. This is Poppy Killed Mommy and thank you for listening.