When I reached the lounge and locked eyes on the familiar, dark-haired teenage boy sitting on my couch, with my sister on his lap, a wave of unease washed over me. I couldn’t explain why I felt so uncomfortable or why the hairs on the back of my neck shot up whenever I laid eyes on him. But it always happened. I felt like Peter Parker with Spidey senses, and mine told me that Mark Allen was not good. Not good at all.
