“Sounds like supersecret spy shit to me.” Ethan grinned, but his eyes held little humor. He knew how serious this had just become.

“Not quite.” Feldman rolled the chip between his thumb and forefinger, and his jaw tightened in anger. “It’s a high-tech pet tracking device, designed to find rich-bitch poodles that wander too far from their gated communities,” he said. “But it’s still in the prototype phase. We’re being tagged like apes in the wild, using a technology that hasn’t yet been approved for dogs, and should never be used on people.”

Indignation shined like inky flames of fervor in Feldman’s coal-colored eyes. Not that I could blame him. “And yet you’re surprised when we don’t welcome your boyfriend with open arms…”

What? Was he blaming Marc for the microchips?

“Mr. Feldman, Marc had nothing to do with this,” I insisted, my stomach clenching around the lump of apprehension lodged in my gut. “A violation of privacy like this stands to benefit him no more than it does you. Quite the opposite, in fact. So why would he participate in it?”

Feldman shrugged broad shoulders. “I assume he’s following orders.”

Adrenaline scorched my nerve endings, and I glanced at Ethan to find my dread mirrored in his expression. They thought our father had ordered strays illicitly tagged and monitored?

“You’re wrong,” I said, fighting to remain calm. To slow my racing heart. “My dad would never do something like that, and neither would Marc.”

“That you know of.” Feldman leaned forward, studying me carefully, looking for a lie in my bearing or the race of my heart. Then, apparently satisfied, he exhaled softly. “I believe that you knew nothing about this.” He widened his gaze to include the guys. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. And I’m holding the proof that it did.” He held the chip higher for emphasis.

“Why?” Parker asked with his typical quiet composure, drawing all eyes his way.

Feldman frowned. “Why, what?”

“Why are you still holding the proof?” He gestured at the pill-size capsule. “You could have crushed that thing like a bug. Why didn’t you?”

“Because then whoever’s monitoring it would know I’d found it. They’d know we’re onto them.”

“We, who?” Dan asked, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “Who else has one?”

“I don’t know. Kevin Mitchell knows about the chips because I told him, but as far as I know, I’m the only one who’s actually found one. And we agreed to keep it quiet to avoid panic and public outcry until we’ve decided what to do about it. With Marc out of the picture, that should be a little easier.”

Fury scalded my cheeks and Feldman watched my face, but he seemed to get no pleasure from my reaction. He was stating facts—at least as he saw them—not trying to get a rise out of me.

“For the last time, Marc is not…” Dead. “Involved,” I finished, avoiding the tactical error at the last second. I closed my eyes, thinking. Kevin knew about the chips. And Kevin had arranged the attack on Marc. He was the only thing bridging the gaps in our understanding.

Now, if we could just figure out how he fit in.

Dan shifted on the couch cushion beside me, and I looked over to find him frowning, a mixture of guilt and loyalty highlighting the tired creases around his eyes. If he didn’t let go of that misplaced guilt soon, he was going to drive himself nuts. “She’s right, Ben. Marc had nothin’ to do with this. I’da known about it.”

Feldman eyed him in both pity and scorn. “You think he told you everything he ever did? Every man has secrets, Painter.”

“I know.” Dan dropped his gaze and cleaned grime from beneath one fingernail with another. “But he wouldn’ta done this. Marc doesn’t have that in him.”

“Bullshit!” Feldman’s voice rose, and he scooted to the edge of his seat, his fists hanging over the coffee table between us. “Ramos is neck-deep in this! He’s been taking us one at a time for weeks. Some of us never return, and some come back with chips in our backs—” he held up the microchip as evidence “—and no memory of what happened.”

“If you have no memory of it, how do you know what happened?” Parker asked softly.

Feldman’s angry gaze found him. “I discovered a scar I couldn’t account for, and there was a little lump beneath it. Almost too small to feel. And I dug this thing out of my flesh. At first I couldn’t figure out how it got there. Then I remembered a night a couple of weekends ago. I went out drinking with some colleagues, and I stayed a while after they left. I woke up in my own bed twenty-four hours later, with no memory of going home, or what I’d done since. I assumed I’d partied too hard.”

“Do you do that often?” I interrupted, and he scowled at me.

“No. But nothing else made any sense, since I woke up with both of my kidneys in place.” The acid in his tone could have melted through flesh, but I couldn’t resist a small smile, in spite of the seriousness of his accusations.

“I didn’t put it together until I found the chip.”

“Why didn’t you notice the wound?” Ethan scratched the dark stubble on his chin.

“Because there was no wound. I’d have noticed stitches and a bandage, but there was nothing but a fresh scar, which I didn’t notice for another week. Now, how they managed that, I have no idea.”