On a drive through Oroio Grande last spring, I'm heading northeast towards the 227, a rural

highway that takes you from A.G., up to San Luis Obispo through Edna Valley, an alternate

route to the 101, a 1500 mile freeway that goes from Los Angeles all the way up to the

state of Washington. Before I merge onto the official on ramp of the 227, I turn into

a residential neighborhood and everything suddenly gets a lot quieter. As trucks behind me continue

on the state route, I turn up a steep street surrounded by wooden fences. I expect to

be able to keep driving, but the top of the street turns into a cul-de-sac, and I realize

that the only way out is to turn back around the way I just came from.

In the 10 seconds that it takes me to make a U-turn, I see a man emerge from the driveway

next to me. He's short, in his late 70s with white hair, glasses, and a mustache, and

wearing a light-colored t-shirt and sweatpants. It's almost 2 pm, but he looks a little

disheveled, like he just got out of bed. He stands there and watches me closely as I

turn back down the steep street. I don't say anything to him. I'm not here to cause

trouble. It seems unproductive at this moment. But I do turn and make eye contact with him

before I drive off. It's a brief mutual acknowledgement. We've never met, but I know

exactly who he is, and he knows exactly why I'm driving by his house. This is Ruben Flores,

Paul Flores' father. And this is the house the Flores family moved into in June of 1992

when they left their home in Torrance. I'm still buzzing from the encounter a half-mile

later when I pass a blue nautical-themed house near the village. In the driveway, Mike

McConville is working on his van, and his girlfriend, Susan Flores, is climbing into

her car. Just seconds after their house is out of sight, I make eye contact with a striking

blonde college student with dark, friendly eyes. This is Kristen Smart, on the infamous billboard

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