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The amusement died in Dr. DeMarco’s eyes, his expression twisting again to aggravation. As the door shut, Haven’s hand trembled and shook the fork.
“Eat,” Dr. DeMarco said forcefully. She flinched from his harsh tone and took a bite, so nauseated she had a hard time swallowing. After about ten minutes of thick tension and forcing down half of her food, she set her fork aside, hoping that would satisfy him.
He grabbed her container and dropped it into the trash can with a thud. She watched as he picked up his office phone and dialed a number, putting it on speakerphone as it rang. Dread rocked her when the familiar voice answered the line.
“Yeah?” Carmine said. “Why are you calling me at lunch?”
“I need to see you at the hospital as soon as you get out of school.”
There was a pause. “I didn’t do it.”
Dr. DeMarco sighed. “Didn’t do what?”
“Whatever you think I did.”
“Just come to my office,” Dr. DeMarco said. “I’m not in the mood for your antics today.”
He hung up before Carmine could respond, his attention shifting to Haven. “It’s my birthday.”
“Happy birthday, sir,” she said. “No one told me.”
o;What’s wrong?” She was being too silent.
“I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I was chipped, too.”
He looked at her with confusion, turning down the music in the car. “What do you mean?”
“Like your car—a GPS chip.”
Carmine slammed the brakes as soon as the words registered, the car skidding to a stop with a loud squeal. Haven braced her hands against the dash, eyes wide with shock.
“There’s a tracking chip on you? Where?”
“It’s in me,” she said. “Under my skin.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. Your father chipped you like a dog?”
She shook her head. “My father didn’t do it. Yours did.”
He blinked a few times. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. He stuck the needle into my back. He also scraped my cheek with some kind of cotton swab. I don’t know why, but he did it. He said I can never escape. It’s impossible.”
Carmine’s stomach sank. He was going to be sick.
* * *
Vincent stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor of the Belden Stratford Hotel and strolled toward his room at the end of the hall. The dim lighting was easy on his tired eyes. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep, his hectic schedule taking a toll on him.
Jet-lagged, he was looking forward to having some down time. The next ten hours of his schedule were uncharacteristically clear, and he had no intention of doing anything but lying in bed. He was sick of traveling. Sick of working. Sick of talking. Sick of thinking. He wanted, for once, to savor a bit of peace.
The moment he stepped into his hotel room, the phone in his pocket rang. He looked at the clock—six in the morning.
He pulled out his phone, too exhausted to deal with business, and was surprised to see it was Carmine. Vincent sat down on the edge of the bed. “Isn’t it a bit early for you to be up, son?”
