I could have run, bolted past her, out of the home, never to return. In the luxury of hindsight, Judge Spurgeon"s month and a half in juvenile detention would have been such a small price to pay to avoid those final weeks of summer. But I didn"t flee from Liberty Street that day. I stayed and took an apple from an outstretched hand and bit into it, letting its juices run down my chin and onto my shirt.
“I told you it was good.” She giggled and took the apple. “My name is Cassidy. Come on. I have something I want to show you.”
I wanted to protest, but her hand closed around my wrist with the tingle of a jolt of electricity. Cassidy dragged me off down the hall, around a corner, and into a service closet. The door closed, plunging us into almost total darkness. I tried to make out the shad
