Maura Murray: A Car, A Crash, A Vanishing 2025 | True Crime Storytelling

0:09 Tonight's story is unsettling.

0:13 It's not fiction.

0:16 It's not exaggerated.

0:19 It's what lurks in the shadows.

0:22 And it's real.

0:24 Some details may disturb sensitive

0:27 listeners.

0:29 Listener discretion is advised.

0:34 You are drowning in February

0:38 and the weight of everything unsaid sits

0:41 heavy on your chest like wet snow.

0:45 On your desk, accident forms you

0:48 promised your dad you'd collect, still

0:51 crisp in their manila envelope.

0:54 Your computer screen glows with

0:56 half-finish nursing assignments.

0:59 Care plans for patients you'll never

1:01 meet. Medications you'll never

1:04 administer.

1:06 Outside the University of Massachusetts

1:10 Amhurst looks exactly like what it is, a

1:15 place you no longer belong.

1:18 Gray slush clings to the curbs. Wind

1:22 cuts through your jacket and makes every

1:25 breath feel borrowed.

1:28 4 days ago, the call came through while

1:30 you were working campus security.

1:33 Your sister's voice broken, telling you

1:37 about the rehab, about the relapse,

1:40 about how their fianceé took her

1:42 straight to a liquor store on the way

1:44 home.

1:46 You said just two words when your

1:48 supervisor found you sobbing at your

1:50 desk.

1:52 my sister.

1:54 But the words couldn't capture the

1:56 avalanche inside your chest. How

1:59 Kathleen's addiction was your burden,

2:01 too. How everyone's pain somehow became

2:05 yours to carry.

2:08 Now it's Monday, February 9th, and

2:11 you've decided enough.

2:15 You craft the email to your professors

2:17 with surgeon precision.

2:20 Death in the family.

2:23 The lie tastes like copper, but it gives

2:26 you what you need. Permission to

2:29 disappear without questions.

2:32 You pack your dorm room methodically.

2:35 Textbooks because part of you still

2:38 believes you'll come back.

2:41 Running clothes because movement has

2:43 always been your prayer.

2:46 a week's worth of everything else.

2:51 At 3:40 p.m., you're at the ATM on North

2:55 Pleasant Street. The machine dispenses

2:58 $280,

3:01 nearly everything you have.

3:04 The security camera captures you alone,

3:08 your breath forming ghosts in the cold

3:11 air.

3:13 Next, the liquor store.

3:15 Bailey's, Kalúa, vodka, a box of Franzia

3:19 wine. The cashier doesn't ask questions.

3:24 You don't offer answers.

3:28 Your Saturn coughs to life. That

3:30 familiar rattle your dad keeps saying

3:32 needs fixing. The rag he told you to

3:35 stuff in the tailpipe, his bandage for a

3:38 wound too big for band-aids, shifts as

3:41 you pull away from campus.

3:44 At 4:37 p.m., you check your voicemail

3:47 one last time. Then you silence your

3:50 phone and point north.

3:53 Route 112 cuts through New Hampshire

3:56 like a scar. The road you remember from

3:59 family vacations when the White

4:01 Mountains meant hot chocolate and your

4:03 father's stories about conquering

4:06 trails.

4:08 Now it means something else. escape

4:11 maybe or an ending. The accident happens

4:15 at 7:27 p.m. exactly. Your Saturn slides

4:20 on black ice at the sharp curve. The

4:24 steering wheel suddenly useless in your

4:26 hands.

4:27 Physics takes over. Metal meets snow

4:31 with the sound of everything breaking at

4:33 once.

4:34 The airbag explodes, filling your mouth

4:37 with chemical dust and the taste of your

4:39 own fear.

4:41 You sit in the silence afterward,

4:44 engine ticking like a countdown.

4:48 Across the road, Faith Westman peers

4:50 through her window and reaches for the

4:52 phone. The call comes into the Grafton

4:56 County Sheriff's Department at exactly

4:58 7:27 p.m.

5:01 Single car accident on Route 112.

5:05 Black Saturn, young woman standing

5:08 outside.

5:10 Butch Atwood, the school bus driver who

5:12 lives just down the road, stops his bus

5:15 when he sees the scene. The woman by the

5:18 car seems shaken, not injured, but

5:21 rattled.

5:24 When he offers to call police, she

5:27 declines. I've already called Triple A,

5:30 she says.

5:31 She hasn't.

5:33 There's no cell service on this stretch

5:35 of road. Everyone local knows this.

5:40 Atwood drives the 100 yards to his house

5:43 and calls 911 anyway at 7:43 p.m.

5:49 At 7:46 p.m., 19 minutes after Faith

5:53 Westman's initial call, Sergeant Cecil

5:56 Smith's cruiser arrives on scene.

6:00 Headlights sweep across the abandoned

6:02 Saturn. Driver's door unlocked.

6:06 Windshield cracked. Airbags deployed. A

6:09 box of red wine behind the driver's seat

6:12 partially empty. Red stains on the

6:14 ceiling. Wine, not blood. A Coke bottle

6:18 that reeks of alcohol.

6:22 But Mora Murray is gone.

th,: 10:20

6:32 You're manning the security desk when

6:33 Kathleen calls.

6:36 Your older sister, the one who's been

6:38 fighting the bottle for years, tells you

6:40 about being discharged from rehab that

6:43 evening, about how her fianceé, also in

6:46 recovery, took her straight to a liquor

6:48 store on the drive home. About the

6:51 relapse. About the shame spiraling

6:53 through both of them like drain water.

6:56 You talk for 10 minutes. When you hang

6:58 up, you think you're fine.

: 10:30

7:06 stop. Your supervisor, Karen Mayat,

7:09 finds you staring at a nursing textbook,

7:12 tears streaming, completely unreachable.

7:17 She walks you back to your dorm at 1:20

7:20 a.m. When she asks what's wrong, you

7:23 manage just two words.

7:26 My sister,

7:29 Saturday, February 7th. Your father

7:32 arrives from Connecticut with $4,000

7:35 cash and determination. He's here to

7:38 help you buy a new car. The Saturn has

7:40 been smoking, coughing, dying slowly.

7:44 You spend the day car shopping in Hadley

7:47 and Northampton, coming up short of what

7:49 you need.

7:51 That evening, dinner at Amherst Brewing

7:54 Company with your dad and your friend

7:56 Kate. Normal conversation, normal

7:59 laughter.

Your father drops you off at: 1000

8:03 loans you his brand new Toyota Corolla

8:06 for the night.

8:09 The party is forgettable. The drive home

8:12 at 2:30 a.m. is not.

8:17 Sunday, February 8th, 3:30 a.m. The

8:21 Corolla meets a guard rail in Hadley

8:24 with the sound of $10,000 worth of

8:27 damage. Police arrive. No citations, no

8:32 breathalyzer,

8:33 just a shaken young woman and a father

8:36 woken up in a motel room to retrieve his

8:39 daughter and his crumpled car.

8:43 You stay at your father's hotel that

8:45 night. At 5:00 a.m., you use his cell

8:48 phone to call your boyfriend, Billy, in

8:50 Oklahoma.

8:52 What you say to him remains between you

8:54 and the voicemail system.

8:59 Monday, February 9th, 1:13 p.m. Call a

9:04 classmate about returning borrowed

9:06 clothes.

9:08 1:30 p.m. Email professors and work

9:11 supervisor about the fictional family

9:13 death.

9:15 The lie that buys you a week of

9:17 invisibility.

p.m. Call: 1800

9:26 about Vermont hotels.

9:29 You don't make reservations.

9:33 2:18 p.m. Call Billy.

9:37 A conversation you'll never have.

9:43 300 p.m. Leave campus forever.

9:48 You collect the insurance forms,

9:50 withdraw $280,

9:52 buy alcohol, drive north toward

9:55 mountains that once meant safety.

10:01 By the time your Saturn kisses that

10:04 snowbank, your week has become a house

10:07 of cards in a hurricane. The midnight

10:10 breakdown 4 days ago. The $10,015 crash

10:15 2 days ago. The lies this morning. The

10:19 alcohol in your back seat.

10:21 The rag choking your tailpipe.

10:26 You step into air so cold it feels like

10:29 breathing broken glass.

10:34 The Saturn sits at an impossible angle.

10:38 Nose first in the snowbank.

10:41 Rear wheels still on asphalt.

10:45 Steam rises from the crumpled hood like

10:47 the ghost of forward motion.

10:51 Butch Atwood's bus rumbles past. He

10:54 stops, asks if you need help. You

10:57 decline with the confidence of someone

10:59 who's been lying all week.

11:02 He drives away, tail lights disappearing

11:05 around the curve.

11:08 Silence returns. No cell service, no

11:12 witnesses except the stars.

11:16 You have a choice to make. The clock

11:19 starts now.

11:24 At 7:27 p.m., Faith Westman calls 911.

11:30 At 7:43 p.m., Butch Atwood calls police

11:34 from his house.

11:37 At 7:46 p.m., Sergeant Cecil Smith

11:41 arrives on scene.

11:43 Total window 19 minutes.

11:47 Not 24 hours, not even an hour.

11:51 19 minutes.

11:54 19 minutes for a human being to

11:57 evaporate.

11:59 She was observed by multiple witnesses,

12:02 seen standing by her car, heard

12:04 speaking, confirmed, present, and

12:07 accounted for. Then in a window smaller

12:10 than most lunch breaks, she became a

12:12 ghost.

12:14 If someone took her, they didn't stalk

12:17 her for weeks. They didn't plan for

12:19 months. They simply had to be in the

12:22 right place at the right time, ready to

12:25 step into those 19 minutes of

12:27 vulnerability.

12:30 If she ran, she couldn't have gone far.

12:33 The woods are dense. The snow was deep.

12:36 The cold was killing.

12:40 If she died by misadventure, her body

12:42 would have been found. This isn't

12:45 Manhattan. It's rural New Hampshire.

12:48 19 minutes isn't enough time to travel

12:51 beyond the search radius that came

12:53 later.

12:55 The terrifying truth is this.

12:58 19 minutes was sufficient. Sufficient to

13:02 erase a nursing student. Sufficient to

13:05 break a family. Sufficient to create one

13:08 of the most haunting mysteries in

13:10 American criminal history.

13:14 Somewhere in those 19 minutes, between a

13:17 911 call and a police cruiser's arrival,

13:20 Mora Murray stepped through a door that

13:23 only opens one way.

13:26 And 21 years later, we're still waiting

13:29 to see what was on the other side.

13:35 If this story unsettled you…

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