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Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my pen knife.
“But first, we have to take care of the microchip.”
“The micro— ”
I feel along her arm, just above the elbow.
“Wrong arm,” she says in a tone of sick wonder.
Correcting course, I palpate. “Tell me where so I cut as little as possible.”
“You’re serious? You’re going to cut my microchip out?”
“Of course.”
“I—”
“Is that the only one? Did they insert others into you?”
“I don’t know.” She starts to tremble involuntarily.
“We’ll get rid of this one and hope for the best.” I feel a tiny bump, the kind of small imperfection you’d normally dismiss as a scar, but when I poke her skin with the tip of the knife, blood pools and the edge emerges easily.
“Ngg,” she says through gritted teeth, but I give her credit. She’s not fighting me.
I extract the chip and leave it on Jason’s shoulder. Paigelynn presses her finger against the small cut, applying pressure, then looks at me with contempt.
I fold the knife and slip it in my back pocket. “Good. Now we can leave.”
“Where are we going?”
“Far away.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t owe you one, Princess.”
And with that, I open the front door, guiding her out quickly, shutting the past behind us with the click of the lock.
Fresh air never smelled so good.
“Breathe in fast while you can,” I tell her in a low voice as we walk toward the murdermobile. “It’s going to stink for a while.”
Her sound of disgust makes me respect her more.
Fortunately, the van is unlocked, bodies in the back so the front and passenger seats are clear as we climb in. Winnie immediately turns her head toward the bodies, canine nose heading her off. The keys aren’t in the ignition, so I have to squeeze into the back and find poor Simon, my hand sliding under slabs of meat that are turning cold before finding the right lump of metal.
The second I turn the key in the ignition, I unroll the windows, Winnie sticking her nose out to grab clean air.
“You and me both, doggo,” I say as Paigelynn frowns. “You and me both.”
With a jerk, the van lurches forward as I hit the accelerator. The movement forces Paigelynn to turn in her seat toward me, her neck twisted back.
“Oh!” she gasps. “I can’t – I can’t do this!”
“We’re doing it, Princess.”
“Swear to me. Swear to me, Cam,” she says fiercely. “Swear you’re really my king.”
