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.
As the sound of merengue-flavored music booms from the speakers of a car idling at a stop light, the pastor looks through the open window of his office.
From here, he can see the homeless and the drug addicts panhandling and young children walking alone along a street three blocks from THAT house. One in five families, according to the Census, are broken in this community, with children being raised by either single mothers or grandparents.
Like everything in the neighborhood, the church -- with its weathered red brick -- has seen easier days.
Across the street, a sign on the shuttered Carnegie South Branch of the Cleveland Public Library advertises its new location. It closed months ago.
The hardship of Clark Fulton is never far from the pastor's door. Over the years, he's arrived at the church to find dealers in the parking lot, a body lying alongside of the building and, once, a potential child predator plying children with candy to take a ride in a car.
"Give me a half square mile, and I've got my hands full," he says.
"It's bad to say, but there isn't much that shakes me anymore."
But the imprisonment of Berry, her young daughter, Knight and DeJesus is different. "This has shaken me," he says.
For the pastor, part of it is the depravity of the allegations: women chained, raped, impregnated and beaten to the point of spontaneous abortions over a period of years.
The other part, though, hits closer to home.
For a while, there were reports that one of his flock might be involved. Was it possible he, too, missed a sign? No, not this man. It can't be, the pastor and so many others would say.
Abraham has ministered to Pedro Castro, the brother of the accused, who himself was arrested before it was announced he was not involved.
Later, with the Castro brother cleared of charges, Abraham's prayers turned to the neighborhood.
Gathered around a gray fold-out table, Abraham, Dunn and Wodgik joined a half-dozen others in a weekly prayer meeting.