My Boyfriend and Friends Stole My Heart Surgery Fund for Their Trip novel · Chapter 2 of 32

Chapter 2: The Kennel

Vicky takes Biscuit back from the kennel Dillon paid for with her card and finds a note calling her confused; the bank says the transfers came from her own phone.

The fraud agent told me a hold on the accounts would take effect within the hour, and then he told me the part I didn't want.

"Because the transfers came from your own phone, the bank will open it as a dispute, not a theft. Expect up to ten business days."

"My surgery is in nineteen days. The deposit is due today."

"I understand, ma'am. I'm sorry."

I thanked him, which I have never understood about myself, and hung up.

The garage was empty except for my car and a security guard watching me from his cart.

I had one thing left to do before I started shaking, so I did it.

I drove to the Eastside Pet Lodge.

Dillon had told me Tuesday that he was dropping Biscuit at the groomer.

The groomer's name was on a receipt I had found in his jacket, and the receipt said Eastside Pet Lodge, boarding, nine nights.

It was charged to my card.

The lobby smelled like bleach and wet fur.

A teenager behind the counter looked up from his phone.

"Hi. I'm here for a beagle mix named Biscuit. Six years old, notch in his left ear."

"Okay, who's picking him up?"

"I am. I'm his owner."

He frowned at the screen.

"I've got him under Dillon Gleeson."

"Dillon is my boyfriend. He isn't the owner."

"I can't release a dog to someone who isn't on the file."

I took a breath that was only partly steady.

"Can you pull up his vet record? Every dog boarded here has to have a current vaccine card, right?"

"Yeah."

"Who vaccinated him?"

The teenager clicked, and I watched him read.

"Harbor Veterinary Clinic."

"That's where I work. I'm the front desk. The clinic's number is on that card."

I gave him my name, and my clinic's phone number, and my work ID.

He called it.

I stood there while he talked to our practice manager, who told him, in a voice I could hear from the counter, that Biscuit's chart had my name on it from the day he came in, six years ago.

"And I did his microchip," she said. "It's registered to her."

The teenager hung up.

"Okay," he said. "Wow. Okay. Hang on."

He went into the back.

I held the counter with both hands.

A woman at the end of the lobby, holding a carrier with a cat in it, was watching me with the kind of look people give when they have decided to take your side.

I smiled at her.

My face did not work right.

The door to the kennels banged open, and I heard nails on tile.

He came skidding around the corner with his ears flat back and his whole body wagging from the middle.

I got down on the floor in my work clothes and he put both front paws on my chest.

He licked my chin, my ear and my cheekbone, and made the high whining noise he makes at the vet.

"Hi," I said. "Hi, buddy. I know. I know."

My eyes were wet then, and I let them be.

The teenager came back with a folder.

"I need you to sign the release," he said. "And, uh. There's a note on the file. My manager said to show you."

"What kind of note?"

He turned the folder around.

It was a printed intake form, and at the bottom, in the section marked "Special Instructions," someone had typed a paragraph.

I read it standing up with Biscuit leaning against my leg.

"Owner has a serious heart condition and has been confused and forgetful lately. If she calls or comes in saying the dog is hers, do not release him. Please contact Bree Danner at the number below instead. Thank you for looking after our guy! Dillon."

The phone number below was Bree's.

I read it again.

"Confused and forgetful," I said.

"We almost didn't," the teenager said. "My manager said if the vet clinic hadn't confirmed it, we'd have called the other lady."

"Does it say when he typed it?"

He checked.

"Tuesday. Ten forty in the morning."

Tuesday morning, Dillon had kissed me goodbye at the door, and told me to get some rest, and said I looked pale.

At ten forty I had been in the clinic break room eating crackers, because I was too dizzy to stand at the front desk.

He had called me a confused patient to a kennel while I sat there holding my chest and thinking how kind he was to worry.

I signed the release.

"Can I have a copy of that form?" I asked.

The teenager looked at the woman with the cat, who nodded at him very slowly.

"Sure," he said. "I'll print you one."

I put it in my bag along with the printout of the transfers.

Biscuit walked out with me on his leash like it was a normal Saturday, and I buckled him into the passenger seat.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder.

It was the bank again, a different agent.

"Ms. Merrow, I'm calling to follow up on your dispute. I've reviewed the device log for Tuesday."

"Okay."

"The three transfers were approved from your phone, using your passcode and your fingerprint."

"I was asleep," I said.

"Yes, ma'am. The fingerprint was applied at 2:14 in the morning."

I looked at my right thumb on the steering wheel.

On Tuesday at 2:14 in the morning, I had been asleep on the couch with my hand lying open on my stomach.

And Dillon, the man who had put a blanket over me, had been the only person in the apartment.

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