The interior of the cube was twelve feet square, with a red cement floor and block walls painted a pinkish beige. Three wood-frame double bunks were set up against the sidewalls, two on the left, one on the right. A white fiberglass booth in the far right-hand corner was labeled toilet. Flower stickers decorated the door.

A sliver of wall space hosted three double-decker dented metal lockers. An L.A. Unified School District Surplus sticker was at the bottom of one, Practice Spontaneous Acts of Kindness on another.

The solitary window was set into the back wall, screened and bolted. The pane was wide enough to let in a funnel of diffuse, dusty light. Animal-print curtains had been parted. The view was the rear wall of the property and the black tar roofline of a neighbor’s garage.

Beneath the windowsill sat a squat, six-drawer chest. Stuffed animals shared the top with tubes and bottles and jars of cosmetics. Off to the side, a stack of Bibles.

Eight girls sat on the three bottom bunks, wearing pastel-colored pajamas and fluffy white socks.

Eight pairs of teenage eyes took us in. Narrow age-range; my guess was fifteen to seventeen. Six Hispanic girls, one black, one white.

The room smelled of hormones and chewing gum and face cream.

Valerie Quezada sat at the front of the rear left-hand bunk. Fidgeting, rolling her shoulders, playing with the ends of her long, wavy hair. Two other girls moved restlessly. The others sat quietly.

Crandall Wascomb said, “Morning, young ladies. These are the police and they’re very nice. This gentleman is a police lieutenant and he’s here to help you, both these gentleman want to help you . . .” He flashed us a helpless look and trailed off.

Milo said, “Hi, there.”

Valerie pointed a finger. “You were here already.”

Milo cued me with a tiny movement of his head.

I said, “Yes, we were, Valerie.”

“You know my name.” Accusatory.

Some of the girls tittered.

I said, “Where’s Cherish, Valerie?”

“Left.”

“When did she leave?”

“When it was dark.”

“Around what time?”

Her stare told me the question was absurd.

No clock in the room, no radio, no TV. Light from the window would be the sole arbiter of time.

The room was clean— spotless, the cement floor freshly swept. Each of the six bunk beds was set up identically with two smallish white pillows and a white top sheet folded over a pink blanket.

Blankets tucked military-tight.

I didn’t see Wascomb ordering the girls to make their beds. They had a routine.

I said, “Anyone else have any idea what time Cherish left?”

A couple of head shakes. Neatly groomed heads. The girls appeared to be well-nourished. How often did they leave the property? This room? Were meals taken in the main house, or eaten here? Did homeschooling extend to occasional outings? Maybe that’s why no one had answered the phone when I’d called a few days ago. Or . . .