CARTER
“This place makes my skin crawl,” Spencer grimaces from beside me.
I turn just in time to see him sweeping the area with his eyes, his down-turned lips and the lines of his face coming together to form an irritated picture.
I share the same sentiment. The neighborhood we’re currently standing in looks like it’s straight out of a horror movie—peeling, dilapidated buildings, rats scurrying up and down the street and a cat glaring at us from where it perches on top of a dumpster—and with the line up of sleek luxury cars we’d come in idling at the curb, we couldn’t stand out any more even if we tried.
“You’re sure that’s the place?” Spencer asks, jerking his chin at the house with the number 15. It’s in exactly the same shape as the other houses, with a rusted staircase down the
