Flatt was 8 when her sister was killed. Debbie had just turned 18, and she was Flatt’s whole world. This was August 1975, and Debbie was newly married, living with her husband, Doug Williamson, in a small brick house with clapboard siding in what was then a rural part of Lubbock, Texas. That night, a Sunday, was the birthday of Flatt’s father, and her parents picked up Debbie and took her with them to celebrate at the nearby Pizza Inn, where Doug was working the dinner shift.
Their family was what we now call a blended one. Flatt’s parents had each been married before, and while her father’s two children, Paula and Steve, mostly lived in Minnesota with their mother, Flatt grew up alongside the three children from her mother’s first marriage, half siblings who felt like full ones: Pam, Debbie and their older brother, Ricky. Debbie was the one, though, who became like a surrogate mother. She was older and kind but also goofy, so unlike Flatt’s stricter, less demonstrative parents but also unlike Pam, who was embroiled in teenage angst at the time, and Ricky, who was already out of the house and, everyone said, on drugs.
Flatt, Debbie and her parents ate pizza that night and then dropped Debbie back home around 8:30. Flatt remembers that she asked to stay over at Debbie’s house — something she did a number of times that summer — and that her mom said no. She remembers Debbie getting out of the car, how pretty she was — her blond hair still in the feathered Farrah Fawcett cut she got for her wedding — and then watching her disappear inside.
‘True crime’ has become a big business — and an emotional minefield for victims’ families.
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