Again, with that question, how did we not know?
Tears of joy and of sadness
Everybody in the neighborhood travels along Seymour Avenue at some point. It's one of the few two-way streets that runs east to west.
If there's an accident, you take Seymour.
If there's too much traffic, you take Seymour.
If you need a shortcut, you take Seymour.
Nearly every day for their more than 10 years of captivity, hundreds of people have traveled by THAT house.
Among them is 57-year-old Ronice Dunn.
There isn't much that Dunn hasn't seen or heard about since she first moved into in the neighborhood in 1984.
The way she tells it, her family was an oddity in the neighborhood: The first black family to move into Clark Fulton.
It was supposed to be step up from the Eastside neighborhood she came from, she says.
"I tell people I lived in the ghetto, and now I'm back in it," she jokes, with an easier laughter spilling out across the living room of her home two blocks from THAT house.
She, like many, has shed tears this week.
Part of it's the joy that "those girls" are home. Part of it, she admits, is sadness that for so long the girls were so near.
For years after Berry and DeJesus disappeared, she joined in neighborhood vigils and prayer groups for their safe return. A flyer pleading for information about DeJesus hung on a utility pole until just weeks before her discovery.
Then to find out after all these years that they were so close, she says...
"I keep thinking we should have heard their cries," she says, tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Those poor babies."
Drug dealers, a body, a predator
Pastor Abraham has walked and driven the same streets as Wodgik and Dunn and has the same questions. Perhaps there's even more of a sense of sadness for him: He tends to these people, to these streets.