CHEERLEADER Vanished In 1998 – 18 Years Later, Her Dad Flips Through Her Old Yearbook And Notices… | HO

On a cool October night in 1998, the Lakewood High Lions had just clinched a homecoming victory. The stands buzzed with celebration, students spilled into the parking lot, and parents honked their horns, eager to gather their kids and head home. Among them was Lysa Combmes, a senior, cheer captain, honor student, and the kind of girl everyone trusted.

She waved goodbye to her best friend, Ayana, promising not to miss her mother’s home-cooked dinner. She took a shortcut behind the gym—a well-lit path used by dozens of students every day. That was the last time anyone saw her.

When Lysa didn’t come home, her family hoped for the best. Maybe she lost track of time. Maybe she was with friends. But as hours turned to days, and then weeks, hope faded. The case that began as a missing person quietly transformed into something else—a mystery that would haunt Lakewood for nearly two decades.

A Life Interrupted

Born April 23, 1981, Lysa was the only child of Relle and Donald Combmes. She grew up in a modest home filled with the scent of cornbread and Ivory soap, the kind of place where neighbors stopped by unannounced and everyone knew your name.

From childhood, Lysa was different—alert, kind, and mature beyond her years. Teachers described her as “an old soul,” the first to help when a classmate dropped their lunch tray, the one who offered two pencils if you forgot yours.

By high school, Lysa was a fixture in Lakewood’s halls. She anchored the track team, co-captained the cheer squad, and tutored struggling students. She was popular, but not in the superficial sense—she was respected, trusted, and known for her steady presence. She kept her circle wide, moving easily among athletes, honor students, and outcasts alike.

But in her senior year, small signs suggested not everything was perfect. She confided to friends about a strange feeling—someone watching, a presence lingering near the gym after practice. She changed her routines, took different routes to class, and started journaling more. One cryptic entry read: “He’s always around, quiet, won’t look away.” No name, no context. Just a quiet hint at discomfort.

The Night Everything Changed

October 9, 1998, was supposed to be a celebration. After the game, Lysa changed quickly, tucked her hair under a knit cap, and walked out with her cheer gear. She was seen crossing the lot, phone in one hand, Gatorade in the other. “I’m taking the back gate—it’s quicker,” she told Ayana. It was a path she’d taken dozens of times.

She never made it home.

By midnight, her parents had called friends, coaches, even the police. “She’s never done this,” her father insisted. “If she was going to be late, she’d say something.” The initial police response was routine. Maybe she ran away. Maybe she needed space. But her room was untouched, her phone charger still plugged in, her Sunday church clothes still hanging on the closet door. It was as if she’d stepped off the edge of that path and disappeared.

The town searched. Flyers went up. Vigils were held. But days passed with no sign of Lysa. Ten days after she vanished, two students found a pair of black sneakers wedged behind a log near the shortcut. They were Lysa’s—untied, undamaged, sitting neatly on the ground. No footprints, no torn clothing, no sign of a struggle. The shoes were logged into evidence, but the trail went cold.

A Family’s Grief, A Town’s Silence

For the Combmes family, time stopped. Lysa’s mother, Altha, retreated into herself, refusing to eat, answer calls, or leave the house. By June 1999, she died of cardiac arrest—what friends called a broken heart. Donald, now alone, clung to hope. He kept Lysa’s room unchanged, her textbooks stacked, her bed made, waiting for her to walk back in.

Rumors swirled. Some blamed Ayana for not walking Lysa home. Others suspected her boyfriend, Jared, who was cleared after police scrutiny. Theories multiplied—maybe she was taken by a stranger, maybe she ran away. But those who knew Lysa best never believed she’d leave without a word.

As years passed, the case faded from headlines. Detectives rotated, resources shifted, and the town moved on. But Donald never stopped searching. He attended missing persons conferences, tracked every tip, and filed every rumor in color-coded binders. He wasn’t looking for closure—he was looking for his daughter.

A Yearbook, A Clue, A Break

Eighteen years later, in 2016, Donald climbed into his attic to sort old boxes. He found Lysa’s senior yearbook and, for reasons he couldn’t explain, flipped through it again. This time, something caught his eye: a boy’s face, always in the background. Not smiling, not facing forward—just there. In photo after photo, he appeared near Lysa: by the water fountain, on the gym floor, in the bleachers. He wasn’t listed in the index, didn’t belong to any club, and wasn’t in the “most likely to” section. But he was always there.

Donald dug deeper, finding a forgotten complaint form in Lysa’s school folder: “He waits for me after practice. He doesn’t talk but he’s always there. I think it’s Vincent S.” Dated a week before she vanished. The school counselor’s note read: “We’ll monitor behavior. Probably nothing.”

Vincent Simp, class of 1998. A quiet student, described as forgettable, who always wore the same green jacket and kept to himself. Teachers barely remembered him. But the art teacher recalled he drew detailed sketches of girls—especially cheerleaders. One drawing, she realized in hindsight, was of Lysa.

Donald checked public records. Vincent had no criminal record in 1998, but in 2003 he was arrested for stalking in a neighboring county. He still lived in Lakewood, working as a night security guard, living with his mother in the same house.

With this evidence, Donald approached the Lakewood Police Department. A young detective, Aaron Fuller, reopened the case. For the first time, Lysa’s red varsity jacket—found behind the school trail—was tested for DNA. The results matched Vincent.

Justice, But No Closure

A search of Vincent’s home revealed photos of Lysa, poems in his handwriting, and candid shots taken from a distance. Confronted with the evidence, Vincent offered no confession, only the chilling words: “She shouldn’t have run.”

The case went to trial in 2016. The jury heard about the complaint form, the yearbook photos, the DNA, and the years of silent obsession. Despite the absence of a body, Vincent Simp was convicted of kidnapping and second-degree murder.

But for Donald Combmes, and for Lakewood, closure proved elusive. Lysa’s remains were never found. Her room stayed untouched, her memory preserved in the hope that maybe, one day, the last page would turn.

A Cautionary Tale

Lysa’s story is not just about loss, but about the dangers of quiet warnings ignored. She told people in her words, her tone, her subtle changes in routine. But no one listened—until it was too late.

Today, her case is a reminder: red flags don’t always wave. Sometimes, they whisper.