Page 3 of Gardening and Gargoyles

WHEN MY PHONE RINGSin a couple of hours, I flop my gardening gloves off, stand up, push my sweaty hair out of my eyes, and grab the phone excitedly. It’s almost five, and my package isn’t here yet, which is totally fine. I’m going to keep gardening until it’s too dark to see, which will be pretty late. It’s close to the summer solstice, after all.

“Hello?” I don’t recognize the number, but it has a UK country code, which means it’s Daniel, probably calling from his hotel room. Really, really late, though. Oh, well, I told him I didn’t care when he called me.

But the voice on the other end is polite and robotic. “Hello. This is HB Bank of London. Your account has been temporarily locked due to unusual activity. To unlock your account, please log in to your account through the HB Bank of London website and follow the steps listed there. Please note, a representative will never call you and ask for your account number or card number. If you have any questions, please call the number located on the back of your card or on the top of your most recent electronic statement.”

I roll my eyes, already rushing back into the house to snag my laptop off the spacious kitchen island, kicking off my grassy, earth-covered flip-flops. “Robot lady! It’s me, I did it. Oh geez...” I mutter to myself and scroll through my phone, looking for the photo I snapped of the login info Daniel insisted on giving me, along with his duplicate card. “Great way to repay the nicest guy on earth. Sorry, honey, while you were working your ass off to spoil me, I got your account locked up. Why are they calling so late, though? Oh, shit, what if he needed his card to pay for a client dinner or get a cab, or...”

My mind is spiraling, and my fingers are racing to punch in everything. Maybe it was someone else’s turn to pay? Maybe itwas a day on site, doing boring paperwork, and he’s safe in bed now, and in the morning I’ll explain, and we’ll laugh...

I follow the steps to unlock the account and breathe a sigh of relief when it works.

But my charges aren’t the ones listed as flagged.

The debit account that Daniel is sharing with me isn’t even the one marked with asterisks to denote suspicious charges. I blink and read the tiny print, almost white letters on a pale blue box.

“For the last six billing cycles, all of your expenditures have come from account 455-552. Today, we noticed several thousand pounds being withdrawn from account 455-553, which has been inactive for the last six billing cycles. If you want to ensure that your account isn’t accidentally locked in the future...”

I stop reading and stare at the screen.

Daniel has two accounts under one umbrella. That makes sense, I guess. One is probably for life in the USA, and one is for when he’s in the UK. Or maybe personal versus business.

Except he’s been back to England and Northern Ireland at least three times since I’ve known him.

One might be savings. One might be a retirement account. I’m being nosy.

But I also feel like somehow, it’s my fault for using the duplicate card for the first time, and racking up so much money on it—and when I look at the charges, I notice that there are a bunch of charges from yesterday and today—from places with Scottish addresses and my charge from NY. I notice one to Promises Kept, Pine Ridge, NY. The handyman service delivering the present.

A weird feeling tickles the tip of my nose. My nana always called it the “suspicious sneeze.” My mom and all of my aunts have it. When something is off, our nose itches, and then we—

“Ahchoo!” The sneeze rips out of me, and the queasiness sets in.

Daniel is a good guy. He loves you. He proposed, like, two weeks ago. What are you doing, being so nosy and suspicious?

Just call him.

So I do. And he doesn’t answer. It’s only a little after eleven there.

He could still be in a meeting or having post-dinner drinks. Maybe he took clients out to a play. Gotta impress the big spenders.

Another sneeze almost knocks me off the kitchen stool where I’m perched.

Another call. A text that says I need him to answer, it’s urgent.

Nothing.

“Shit, I’ll tell him why later,” I say, then open the other account, the one that’s not been used in six billing cycles—since he met me.

My eyes widen at the string of red charges, all flagged.

Aphrodite’s Dungeon, Soho. Aphrodite’s Dungeon, Soho. Kitten’s Lounge, Soho. Barely There Apparel, Soho.

In seconds, I open another tab, and I’m typing in the location on a search engine.

Maybe Daniel’s card got stolen. That’s probably it.

Oh, my gosh, what if he’s lying unconscious somewhere while some pervert has his card and—

My train of thought derails when I see that Aphrodite’s Dungeon is a “Fetish and Lifestyle Club” catering to Britain’s swinger and BDSM scene.