"What are we looking for?" Lizzie asked.

"I don't know yet," hissed Julia. "We'll know it when we find it."

Julia honed in on a metal filing cabinet opposite the bathroom. Lizzie watched over her friend's shoulder as the girl rummaged through folders of Alice Benbow's tax returns and medical bills from her late daughter's chemotherapy. Eventually, Lizzie's attention drifted to the volumes on the shelves: Xenophon's Anabasis, CliffsNotes to Jude the Obscure, Peterson's A Field Guide to the Birds of Virginia. Nothing pornographic, nothing more risqué than the collected works of D. H. Lawrence.

"Nothing down here," said Julia. "Let's go."

She grabbed Lizzie by the hand and led her up the basement stairs to the first floor of the bungalow. Sweat mixed with sweat in their palms. They tiptoed across the tiled kitchen and into the narrow foyer, where the hardwood floorboards whimpered under their feet. A door stood ajar along the corridor, revealing the flicker and din of the nightly news. They edged past the grandmother's room, one at a time, like pioneers traversing a rickety bridge. And suddenly, after they'd both slid by safely, an ancient voice cried out, "Rex? Are you home already?"

Julia reached for Lizzie's hand again and squeezed. Lizzie didn't dare to exhale. From Alice Benbow's room rose the flat, soothing voice of Tom Brokaw announcing the formal dissolution of Czechoslovakia. The grandfather clock in the foyer ticked away the seconds, but Lizzie lost track of time. When the old woman had remained silent for what must have been five minutes—but felt like several generations—Julia tugged on Lizzie's arm and steered her into the sex offender's bedroom.

The girls navigated the chamber by flashlight. A matching rosewood chiffonier and bow-front dresser stood on either side of the window; additional drawers ran beneath the platform bed. Vintage movie posters covered the interior walls: Paper Moon, The Man Who Would Be King. On the nightstand rested a pair of reading glasses, a Bible, and an ashtray full of cigarette stubs. Julia ran her hand under the carefully folded bedcovers, under the pillow and mattress, behind the dresser. She found nothing salacious or remotely incriminating. She yanked open the drawers below the bed and discovered collections of stamps and baseball cards. Lizzie perched atop the edge of the bedspread and thought to herself: I'm in a sex offender's bedroom. I'm sitting on a sex offender's bed. She turned off her flashlight. At some point, Julia climbed up beside her on the bed.

"I'm sure there's something here," whispered Julia.

"We just don't know where to look. Think, Lizzie: If you were a pervert, where would you hide stuff?"

"I don't know. I guess if it was that important, I'd take it with me."

Lizzie hadn't meant her words to sound like a challenge, but in the darkened room they came across as more aggressive than she'd intended. Her head was swimming. She wished she could spend eternity alone like this with Julia, yet part of her brain was warning her to flee immediately.