In the sweltering haze of a Midwestern summer afternoon, where the air hums with cicadas and the scent of cut grass lingers like a half-remembered promise, two little girls pedaled into oblivion. It was July 13, 2012, in Evansdale, Iowa—a sleepy speck on the map of Black Hawk County, population 4,751, where Friday afternoons meant popsicles and playgrounds, not posters plastered on every lamppost. Ten-year-old Lyric Cook-Morrissey, with her freckled cheeks and boundless curiosity, and her eight-year-old cousin Elizabeth Collins, all pigtails and giggles, hopped on their bikes for a quick spin around Meyers Lake. They waved goodbye to family, their laughter trailing like exhaust. By evening, the bikes lay abandoned at the water’s edge, purple and pink frames twisted against the shore like discarded toys. What followed was a nightmare that shattered a community, splintered families, and left a scar still raw thirteen years later. Now, Netflix’s riveting four-part docuseries Taken Together: Who Killed Lyric and Elizabeth?, premiering exclusively on November 8, 2025, drags this unsolved horror back into the light, armed with never-before-seen footage, raw survivor testimonies, and a fresh push for answers that has reignited national fury. Directed by investigative journalist Elena Vasquez, whose previous work on The Forgotten Midwest earned her a Peabody nod, this isn’t just a retelling—it’s a reckoning, forcing viewers to confront how innocence can vanish in broad daylight and justice can languish in the shadows.

The series opens with a gut-wrenching montage: grainy home videos of Lyric belting out Katy Perry tunes in her bedroom, Elizabeth’s crayon-scrawled birthday cards fluttering in the wind. Cut to the frantic 911 call from Lyric’s grandmother, Tammy Brousseau, her voice cracking over the line: “My grandbabies are gone—they never came home from biking.” Within hours, Evansdale transformed from a haven of cornfields and county fairs into a hive of helicopters and cadaver dogs. The FBI swooped in, divers scoured the 26-acre lake’s murky depths, and volunteers—farmers in flannel, moms with megaphones—combed the woods until blisters bled. “It was like the town inhaled and forgot to exhale,” recalls Drew Collins, Elizabeth’s father, in his first on-camera interview in years. His eyes, etched with grief’s fine lines, bore witness to the chaos: tip lines jammed with 2,000 calls in the first week, Amber Alerts blaring across Iowa’s heartland, and a $150,000 reward fund swelling from community bake sales and car washes. But hope curdled fast. Five months later, on December 20, hunters in the Seven Bridges Wildlife Area—thirty miles north, across county lines—stumbled on a grisly tableau: two small bodies, clad in the same outfits from that fateful day, concealed in dense underbrush. Autopsies confirmed the unthinkable: abduction, assault, murder. No sexual assault, mercifully, but the brutality—blunt force trauma, signs of restraint—painted a portrait of calculated cruelty. “They deserved lazy summers, not this,” Heather Collins, Elizabeth’s mother, whispers in Episode 1, her hands trembling as she clutches a faded photo.

Taken Together doesn’t traffic in cheap shocks; it excavates the human cost with surgical precision. Vasquez, granted unprecedented access after shadowing the case for eight years, weaves a tapestry of intimate devastation. We see Misty Morrissey, Lyric’s mother, unraveling in real time—her initial pleas for her daughter morphing into a haze of relapsed addiction, landing her back in federal prison on meth charges unrelated to the case but amplified by public scorn. “I was clean for her,” Misty confesses in a tear-streaked sit-down, her voice a rasp from years of silence. “Then the world decided I was the monster.” Dan Morrissey, Lyric’s father, a repeat offender facing decades for possession, speaks haltingly about the polygraphs he endured, the whispers that he snitched on dealers—sparking theories of cartel retaliation. Cleared early on, the couple’s criminal past became tabloid fodder, a distraction from the real predator. Episode 2 delves into the investigation’s labyrinth: the bikes’ pristine condition (no fingerprints, but a single hair later lost in chain-of-custody snafus), security footage capturing the girls’ joyful pedal past a local store at 12:17 p.m., and the eerie calm of the trail—no screams, no struggle. “It was someone they knew,” posits retired Detective Bob Waters, his gravelly timbre underscoring the betrayal. The doc revives the “drug debt” angle, interviewing informants who claim Dan’s tips to cops painted a target on his family, but forensics debunk it—no ties to organized crime, just small-town users caught in a web of addiction.

As the series unspools, it spotlights the Collins family’s unyielding vigil. Drew and Heather, divorced under grief’s weight but bonded by purpose, founded the Lyric & Elizabeth Foundation, channeling $200,000 in donations into child-safety grants and annual bike-ride memorials. Their daughter Callie, just four at the time, now 17, shares haunting vignettes: “I begged to go with them that day. Liz said, ‘Next time, squirt.’” Callie’s testimony, filmed in the very trailhead, captures the innocence stolen—not just lives, but a generation’s trust. Evansdale, once a tight-knit enclave of potlucks and Little League, fractured along fault lines: blame hurled at the parents, suspicion on outsiders like the paddle-boater spotted on the lake (a red herring, cleared by alibis), and whispers of a serial abductor linking to the 2012 Delphi murders in Indiana. Vasquez’s team unearths exclusive gems: dashcam from a passing truck showing a maroon van idling nearby (never traced), and a 2025 DNA retest using advanced genetic genealogy that narrows a partial profile to a white male in his 40s, possibly with Midwest ties. “We’re closer than ever,” Drew asserts, his fist clenched around Elizabeth’s locket. But the doc doesn’t shy from frustration—13 years, 5,000 leads, zero arrests. Iowa DCI’s Mike Halverson admits in a tense roundtable: “We botched the early scene. Chain of custody, evidence degradation—it’s our albatross.”

What elevates Taken Together to must-watch status is its unflinching gaze at the ripple effects. Episode 3 profiles the community’s ghosts: the trail now lined with plaques bearing the girls’ smiling faces, etched with “Forever in Our Hearts,” where joggers pause in silent tribute. We meet Gerard Meyers, a former suspect grilled for his proximity to the lake (cleared, but forever marked), and Troy, a shadowy figure whose suicide in 2019 sparked wild speculation—did his cryptic note confess? Vasquez confronts a new lead in Episode 4: a prison inmate claiming insider knowledge from a cellmate with Evansdale connections, corroborated by a tipster’s sketch matching the DNA phantom. The finale builds to a cathartic family summit, where the Collinses and Morrisseys—estranged for years—share a meal, toasting the girls with root beer floats. “We’re not enemies; we’re survivors,” Heather says, bridging the chasm. It’s a moment of fragile unity, underscored by archival footage of the girls splashing in a kiddie pool, their joy a dagger to the heart.

Since its drop, Taken Together has dominated Netflix charts, amassing 45 million hours viewed in its first week—surpassing Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story for true-crime velocity. Social media erupts in a torrent of anguish: #JusticeForLyricAndElizabeth trends with 2.3 million posts, fans shattered by the rawness. “I ugly-cried through Episode 2—how does a town heal from this?” one X user laments, while Reddit’s r/UnresolvedMysteries thread balloons to 50k upvotes, dissecting the van theory with forensic fervor. Critics rave: The New York Times dubs it “a masterstroke of empathy amid outrage, 9/10 for refusing voyeurism,” while Variety praises Vasquez’s “investigative tenacity that rivals The Staircase.” A 94% Rotten Tomatoes score reflects its power, though some decry the parents’ spotlight as “trauma porn.” Yet, the doc’s true triumph is amplification—tips surged 300% post-premiere, flooding Iowa Cold Cases with anonymous packets. “This isn’t closure,” Vasquez tells a wrap-up panel. “It’s ignition. Their story demands we look harder.”

Thirteen years on, Evansdale endures as a monument to what-ifs. Elizabeth would be 21, perhaps studying art at UNI, her sketches blooming into murals. Lyric, 23, might chase dreams of veterinary school, her love for animals a spark unextinguished. Instead, their absence echoes in empty swings and annual vigils where purple balloons— their favorite color—dot the sky. Taken Together doesn’t solve the enigma; it humanizes it, reminding us that behind every headline is a chorus of shattered souls fighting for one more clue. In a streaming sea of sensationalism, this series stands as a beacon—heart-stopping, yes, but ultimately hopeful. As Drew Collins closes the finale, gazing at the lake: “They took our girls, but not our fight.” Fire up Netflix, steel your heart, and join the chorus. The truth might be out there, pedaling just beyond the bend.