"Oh, I've seen your flyers," said Lizzie's father. "But as far as I'm concerned, punishment is the job of the criminal justice system. I'm in the business of forgiving people, not harassing them."

Dr. Sand's face lost its color, but his voice remained level. "I don't think that's an accurate characterization, Bill. We're not harassing anyone . . . You're an educator. And a father. Surely you must . . ."

"Must I? Well, I don't," said Bill. "In fact, I've been thinking of inviting the poor fellow over for dinner."

That was too much for Dr. Sand. "I won't pretend to understand, Mr. Sucram," he said, shaking his head like a preacher befuddled by sin. He turned so quickly that he nearly toppled his son. Lenny Sand flashed his sister a look of warning on his own retreat down the steps.

"When holes start sprouting inside your brain," Sucram called after them, "you may see things differently."

Lizzie watched the Sands knock on the neighbor's door. The dentist presented his petition to elderly Mrs. Greenbough, who kept asking Dr. Sand to speak louder until the dentist was forced to shout his proposed ordinance into the tranquility of the suburban morning. Then Sucram apologized to the girls for disrupting their work and wheeled himself back inside the house.

"Your dad is awesome," said Julia. "Totally awesome."

*           *          *

Another three days elapsed without any signs of life at the corner bungalow—and then, on Tuesday afternoon, the girls returned home from school to find the Benbows' garage door rolled up. As they watched, dumbstruck, a twenty-year-old Lincoln Town Car, glistening with tail fins and suicide doors, eased into the driveway; the driver exited the vehicle and pulled the garage door shut behind him. When the car passed Lizzie's porch, the girls recognized Rex Benbow—older, but unmistakably the face from the flyers—at the helm. Instantly perspiration erupted on Lizzie's neck and along the bellies of her forearms.

"Okay, babe, it's now or never," declared Julia. "Tell your mom we're walking downtown to see a movie."

Lizzie did as instructed. Then she trailed Julia up the block and around the corner onto Fleming Street—where they advanced ten meters before backtracking into the Benbows' rear yard. Julia plucked two pocket flashlights from her purse, tested each inside her cupped palm, and handed one to Lizzie. "I did some reconnaissance last week," Julia whispered, and, to Lizzie's amazement, her friend retrieved a crowbar from behind the septic tank. Seconds later, she had pried open a cellar window and vanished into the darkness below. By the time Lizzie built up the courage to follow—or rather, by the time the terror of entering had paled compared to the fear of disappointing her closest friend—Julia had already switched on the overhead light.

The finished basement smelled of mildew. Watermarks from remote floods scarred the linoleum. Along one wall, built-in shelves contained cartons marked GLASSWARE, and board games, and a haphazard assortment of books. More books covered a warped Ping-Pong table. In the far corner, a pair of stilts leaned against a sofa missing several cushions. A side door opened onto a small vestibule that contained a washer and dryer, and another door led to a windowless bathroom. What struck Lizzie was how ordinary the room appeared: Her own basement would likely look the same in two more decades when she was the sex offender's age, except that her father had invested in a table for billiards instead of Ping-Pong. She wondered whether she and Julia would still be friends then—or more than friends—and whether they would reminisce about the crazy evening when they sneaked into the sex offender's basement.