Stagestruck. Shelley Peterson

cubes. Her husband, Liam, thought he had gotten rid of all the liquor in the house, but Fiona always had something hidden away, just in case. When she’d bought the bottle of gin, she convinced herself that it was only to test her willpower.

      The song ended and the news came on. World news about suffering and war and hunger. Fiona knelt under the sink and felt for the bottle amid the cleaning supplies. Her fingers clutched it, and she pulled it out. Local news about the firemen’s strike and the fundraiser for the animal shelter. She cut open the seal around the mouth of the bottle. An interruption for a news bulletin about wealthy businessman Samuel Owens being released from the mental hospital after being judged sane.

      Fiona stared at the bottle. The glass was ready for the clear, numbing liquid. Samuel Owens? Released? The man who tried to kill Dancer? Fiona wondered if Hilary knew. She should be warned.

      Quickly, Fiona found the number and dialed. It was answered on the first ring.

      “Hello?”

      “Christine? It’s Fiona Malone.”

      “Fiona, how are you? I’m already collecting things for the big garage sale at Someday Farm.”

      “I’m not calling to harass you about that, Christine,” said Fiona, smiling briefly. “Yet.”

      “Has Abby gotten home?”

      “No, not yet. I’m hoping to see her any minute. I’m calling because there’s something on the news. I don’t know if you’ve heard. Samuel Owens has been released from the mental hospital.”

      Christine took a deep breath. “When?”

      “I don’t know. It was on the radio a minute ago, and I wasn’t paying close attention until I heard his name.”

      “Thank you, Fiona. I’ll turn on my radio and listen for more details.”

      “I’m sorry to call with such bad news. It’ll be better next time. I promised Hilary that I’d let her know the minute Abby gets home.”

      “Well, she went out on Dancer, looking for her.”

      “She didn’t!”

      “Oh yes, she did. There wasn’t anything I could say to stop her.”

      “My God! It’s horrible out there.”

      “I know, Fiona, but she’s got the cell phone. If she reports back, I’ll let you know, and if she’s gone too long, we can always call her.”

      “Thanks so much.”

      “Why don’t you come over and wait here with me?”

      Fiona looked at the gin. “Thanks, but I want to be here when Abby gets home.”

      “Of course.”

      “If she gets home before Hilary calls on her cell, I’ll call you.”

      “Good plan.”

      Fiona hung up the phone and continued to stare at the gin. Finally she rose from her chair. She untwisted the cap and carried the bottle over to the counter, where the glass of ice stood ready. With a shaking hand she began to pour. As she lifted the glass to her lips, she was suddenly overpowered by self-loathing. What was she doing to herself? And to her family, who had been so supportive of her rehabilitation? Fiona threw the glass into the sink as if it was too hot to hold, smashing it into fragments. She dumped the entire bottle of gin after it, listening to the chugging sound with satisfaction as it emptied.

      “Fiona, girl.”

      Fiona swung around, startled.

      “Well done, my darling. I couldn’t be prouder.” Liam Malone stood at the kitchen door, dripping water onto the mat. His face was tender, and his eyes were moist with tears. Fiona flew across the room into his open arms, ignoring the soaking wet jacket as she clung tightly to him.

      Samuel Owens sat at his large mahogany desk and looked out of the big picture window over his hundred acres of rolling land. It was good to be home.

      Gazing through the rain-spattered glass, he admired the sweep of the land as it melted into the woods that abutted the Casey property, which gently rose to the horizon. Even in this ghastly weather, the view was majestic.

      It was so good to be home. Owens’ hands greedily rubbed the rich leather arms of his favourite chair. He tilted it back and stretched out his legs, resting his slipper-clad feet on the desk.

      Just this morning, upon his release, the director of Penetang had subtly inferred that he was one hundred percent sane. As if he had ever been insane. Owens’ large, handsome face creased into a foxy smile. The silly doctor had basically apologized for the inconvenience of his incarceration. He didn’t exactly say it, but Owens could read between the lines. His antennae were always up, and he knew that the doctor’s stern warning to take his pills faithfully was merely rote. He couldn’t really expect a sane man to take mood-altering drugs. The lithium dulled his senses. It reduced his pleasure. Even his taste buds didn’t function in the same way.

      Owens had patiently served his time, but now it was over. Things could get back to normal.

      Lightning lit up the sky, and for a brief second, the lane through the lower woods was visible. Owens gasped. In that blink of an eye, he imagined that he saw Dancer and Mousie James, riding down the lane through the woods, from the direction of the Caseys’. Just like they’d ridden many times before.

      Owens blinked. His forehead beaded with sweat and his pulse raced. He could almost feel his blood pressure rise. He dropped his feet to the floor and peered out the window, squinting. He grabbed his binoculars off the hook and focused them on the lane. No sign of horse or rider. He breathed deeply, calming himself. It had been a long, tiring day.

      He turned the binoculars to Wick Farm, and then toward the Casey property. This is what he’d thought about again and again at the hospital. He would own all the land he could see from any window in his house. He would purchase total privacy. It was essential to his happiness. This was his goal, and he was going to achieve it. He’d thought a lot on how to proceed.

      He would give the beautiful divorcée, Helena Casey, a call. In the next few days, he’d drive over for a little visit.

      He rang the silver bell for his manservant. It was time for a Chivas, his first in five long years. Owens dangled his arm over the wastebasket and deliberately dropped the full bottle of lithium. It landed in the empty brass container with a satisfying clunk.

      Hilary and Dancer were thoroughly soaked, but not cold. They were moving quickly. They’d run along the road and cut cross-country toward the trail. When they got to the point where the paths crossed, they headed south. First they checked the fields north of the Caseys’ where her stepfather, Rory, had pastured his prize Herefords. The fields were empty now. Rory had sold the beef cows after his divorce from Helena.

      They had galloped past the Casey mansion, where Helena continued to live. The lights were on in the sitting room, but the rest of the house was dark. Hilary imagined Helena sitting elegantly in the pink Queen Anne chair, wearing a tastefully expensive couturier ensemble. She’d be sipping her drink and clinking her ice cubes as she harboured resentments toward Hilary for being engaged to her son, and toward Christine James for marrying her ex-husband.

      Hilary had never understood how such a cold mother could produce a son as warm and understanding as Sandy. And Rosalyn, Sandy’s sister, was growing into an engaging young woman. She was fourteen now, and when Mousie had seen her last Christmas, she could hardly believe how the chubby, insecure little girl had changed into a confident, bubbly teenager.

      On they ran, through the fields behind the mansion and into Samuel Owens’ woods. Hilary noted the exact spot where Dancer had been stabbed. The memory was fresh, even five years later. Suddenly a surge of raw fear shot through her body. She felt that someone was watching her. Her eyes darted toward Owens’ house at the top of the hill. The lights were on, and she detected a slight movement in the large window.

      Was