After being practically dragged up the stairs and into the attic room, I listened to Skweeker order me to change clothes and pack up whatever we'd need once we got away from the school. For a moment, I stood there, staring her down. "Are you crazy?"

"'Fraid so, kid," she answered. "Or gettin' there."

"Why are we leaving? This is the safest place for us to be right now!" I exclaimed.

Shaking her head, Skweeker answered, "Not any more. They suspect now, and we gotta get outta here before they bring the bulls to get us out."

That alone convinced me, and I grabbed my street clothes and quickly changed. I shoved my black dress into an old burlap bag. Skweeker had done the same, and put her dress into the bag also. Quickly, we snuck downstairs to the kitchen and took as much food left over from breakfast (rolls, biscuits, etc. - also several of the apples that were laid aside for lunch) that we could shove into the bag with our clothes. When the bag was full, we left the building from the back entrance which led from the kitchen outside.

"Where do we go now?" I asked Skweeker.

She shrugged. "No clue. Maybe we should spend the night in the Bronx - "

"No!" I cut her off.

"Well, why not?!" she asked sharply.

"You know what happened last time!"

"Yeah, and they think we beat it outta town. Nobody's gonna come lookin' fer us."

I thought for a moment. It WAS better than sleeping on the street. "Well..."

"Good, c'mon," she said, not giving me enough time to respond completely.

Skweeker grabbed my arm and practically dragged me down the street. It was going to be a long walk to the Bronx.

Once we reached the apartment building, another question was on our minds: How do we get to the apartment without being noticed? I voiced this question to Skweeker.

"Simple. Watch."

McCain took off her hat, letting her hair fall. She let it fall in such a way that it completely covered the scar on her face. Then she pulled off my hat and pulled my hair down and fixed it to fall around my face as well. "Don't put yer hat back on."

"Why not?"

"I guess because hardly anybody's seen either of us widout hats on, much less wid our hair down. We look like diff'rent people, so ta speak. As long as I keep my scar hidden I'm hard to identify. Anybody asks, I'm yer younger sister."

And indeed, someone did ask. A man in his late forties, who I presumed to be the owner of the building, ran into us on the way up the stairs. "Have I...seen either of you somewhere? Do you live here?"

At that moment I amazed myself with the best lie I'd ever told. "No, sir, we're only visiting some friends. Good day."

He smiled. "Good day, ladies."

I sighed with relief once he was out of earshot. Skweeker nodded at me. "Good cover. Ya actually did it widout lookin' guilty."

"Oh, thanks," I muttered as she unlocked the door to her apartment.

As soon as we stepped inside, Skweeker stopped in her tracks, causing me to bump into her. She cursed rather loudly. It was then that I took a moment to look around the small apartment, which had been completely ransacked.

"Th' bulls been here," she said to me. "They musta been lookin' fer evidence."

"I doubt they found anything," I said numbly.

The cushions of the sofa had been torn open, the mattress had been ripped to shreds. Every cabinet was open and each cabinet's contents were scattered across the floor. In short, it was a terrible mess. For a moment I thought Skweeker McCain might actually cry, but she stiffened and clenched her fists.

"What do we - "

"We're stayin' here tonight. End of story," she hissed at me, slamming the door and locking it behind her.

She then stepped into the center of the room and just looked around. "What posessed th' bulls ta do this? Do they wanna find Marconi guilty so bad that they're even gonna rip up the cushions and the pillows tryin' ta prove it?"

I shrugged. "I guess they do."

"Well, McCartney, Greyson didn't do it. He didn't and we're gonna prove it."