Chapter 1

Twenty-one days.

Twenty-one days sober.

Other people talked about abstaining from alcohol in terms of months or years, but in the three years since her drinking started impacting her life, the longest Athena Reynolds had been dry was seven days.

So, twenty-one days was good.

Damn good.

Abstinence was an ongoing battle. Every hour, every minute, every agonizing second of the past twenty-one days, her body ached with a bone-deep desperation. She’d made it that long, but today, the thirst was like a beast inside her, screaming to be fed. Her hard-won sobriety was about to end. She craved a drink. Now. She’d never wanted one more.

Sinking onto the couch, she smoothed the crumpled envelope on her lap and reread the address label. Her stomach knotted. Someone knew her real name, and that she lived in the bustling foothills city of Calgary, Alberta.

How was it possible? After all these years? The past she’d been running from had found her. The nightmare was back. The envelope fell from her shaking hands. Her legs wobbled as she rose and stumbled out of the living room and down the short hall to the kitchen.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window above the sink. The cozy kitchen, with its walls painted a cheerful butter yellow, and the well-scrubbed laminate countertops, gleamed. The steady hum of the refrigerator and ticking of the antique clock on the wall were the only sounds in the silent house. The pungent smell of fried onions and roasted garlic, from last night’s homemade spaghetti sauce, hung in the air.

The efficient kitchen, with its breakfast nook and view of the tidy, fenced backyard and the rolling, grassy foothills and snow-crested Rocky Mountains beyond, was the reason she’d bought the small rancher. This was her favorite room—the place she sought refuge when life overwhelmed her. How many times had she sat there in the evenings after work, sipping a glass of chilled white wine, watching the birds at the feeder on the back porch, breathing in the sweet smells of flowering Saskatoon bushes, regrouping until she was ready to face the world?

These days, her drink of choice was a cup of herbal tea or unsweetened apple juice. Alcohol was off the table…had been for twenty-one unendurable days.

But today, all bets were off.

The brown-paper-wrapped bottle sat on the counter taunting her. She’d read the letter, then rushed down to Larry’s Liquor Outlet on the corner and bought a twenty-sixer of vodka. The alcohol called to her with the siren song of a mermaid, leading her, like the sailors of old, to certain destruction.

Otis, her mixed-breed rescue dog, padded into the kitchen, his nails clicking on the tiles. He leaned his large hairy body against her legs, offering unspoken comfort. His long pink tongue lolled out, and he licked her hand.

“Hey, boy.” Never taking her focus off the mesmerizing bottle, she scratched him behind one floppy ear, threading her fingers through his rough coat.

His tail thumped the floor like a bass drum.

Giving him a final pat, she crossed to the counter and ripped the bag off the bottle. She crumpled the brown-paper wrapping into a ball, then tossed it into the sink. The brand was one she hadn’t tried, but the taste or quality didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to sip the vodka.

Not a chance.

A single, quick gulp, and she’d drain her glass. Then she’d pour the rest of the contents down the sink. She just needed one drink…one stiff shot. Twisting open the bottle top, she poured several ounces into a glass tumbler.

Don’t do this!

The command bellowed through her like an edict from above.

You’re throwing away twenty-one days of sobriety.

Her stomach twisted, and her brain whirled with the coping strategies she’d learned from the four AA meetings she’d attended. Stress was a trigger. She needed to calm down and take control. Closing her eyes, she focused—breathing in through her nostrils and out through her mouth. Slow and steady, just like she’d been taught.

Again, and again.

Really? This mindfulness crap was supposed to work? Who were those AA people kidding? She opened her eyes and spotted the full glass. In that second, the battle was lost. The booze called, promising instant gratification. She needed a drink more than she needed her next breath. Grabbing the tumbler with both hands, she lifted the glass and gulped.

The vodka slithered down her throat, coiled in warm anticipation in her stomach, and seeped into her bloodstream. The familiar, tart, citrusy taste settled on her tongue like an old friend. A tidal wave of comforting warmth swelled, filling her body, relaxing and exhilarating at the same time. She slugged down the rest of the drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

She’d go back on the wagon tomorrow, attend an AA meeting, voice her regrets, and all would be well. Everyone had relapses. Today was hers. Lord knew, she had plenty of reason. She picked up the bottle, held it over her empty glass, and poured.

Her cell phone rang, the tinny peal piercing her brain like a dentist’s drill. The bottle slipped from her hand and landed on the tiles with a thunderous crash. Shards of glass sprayed across the room. Liquor puddled on the floor. The sharp bite of alcohol filled the small kitchen.

Otis barked and bounded into the room.

“Get back, boy.” She gestured for him to sit. “Stay.”

He stopped inches from the spilled liquor and glass splinters and sat.

Cursing under her breath, she tore off a handful of paper towels and crouched on her hands and knees. She ignored the earsplitting ringing and mopped at the spilled liquor. The call was probably from work.

Three weeks prior, her boss, Frank Schuster, at the prestigious law firm of Schuster & Corbin in downtown Calgary, had called her into his office. Apparently, her drinking problem wasn’t a secret anymore. Her co-workers had noticed her all-too-frequent absences and tardiness, and the quality of her work was suffering.

All things considered, Frank had been pretty decent about the uncomfortable situation, but he insisted she take a paid leave of absence while she got her problem under control. The underlying threat was that either she stopped drinking, or she’d be fired.

Hell, if gaining control of the beast that had taken over her life was that easy, she’d have quit long ago. But she needed her job, and she promised him she’d seek help and be back at work in a month, two at the tops. He wished her well, and she packed up her desk and drove home. A woman from the law firm’s human resources department called her every week or so for an update on her recovery. Her mouth twisted. Wouldn’t HR be happy to hear of her most recent relapse?

A sharp, stabbing pain shot through her hand. “Ouch!” She winced and studied her palm. A tiny splinter of glass was embedded in her skin, and a thin trickle of blood seeped from the wound. She sank onto the floor and leaned back against the cupboard. Blood dripped from her cut, mixing with the vodka in a pink-tinged puddle. Tears burned her eyes as she looked from her bleeding hand to the spilled vodka, unsure which upset her more…the wasted alcohol or her oozing wound.

Otis trotted to her side, somehow avoiding the wet floor and broken glass. He licked her face, lapping up the tears.

She buried her nose in his furry neck, inhaling his comforting doggy smell. He plopped on her lap, his heavy body crushing her legs, and she rubbed his belly, tangling her fingers through his coarse gray hair.

The sting in her hand pierced her desolation and guilt. The small cut had stopped bleeding, but she should remove the sliver of glass and clean and bandage the wound. And then she’d go to the store and buy another bottle.

Why not?

The damage was done. She’d broken her twenty-one-day record. One more drink wouldn’t make a difference. Ignoring the inner voice warning her she was destroying her hard-won sobriety, she shoved off Otis’s dead weight and hauled herself to her feet.

The phone rang again.

Throwing her hands up in the air, she swung to the counter, grabbed the vibrating phone, and hit Cancel. Blessed silence filled the air like the sweetest of symphonies.

Otis barked and scratched at the back door, his thick claws digging new furrows into the scarred doorframe.

“Hold on, boy. Let me fix my hand, then you can go out.” Shifting to the sink, she twisted the tap and held her injured palm under the cool running water. The tiny sliver of glass washed away, and she turned off the tap and dried her hand with a paper towel. Sliding open the drawer beside the sink, she fished through the jumble of twist ties, screws, nails, and other junk, and tugged out a crumpled cardboard box of bandages. She removed a bandage, used her teeth to rip off the paper covering, and smoothed the thin plastic bandage over her wound.

Otis barked again. Tail wagging, he perched on his hind end, staring expectantly at first her and then the door, his request more than clear.

Exercise was supposed to be another coping strategy for staying sober. Maybe a walk in the fresh air would help dull her insatiable thirst, and she wouldn’t have to buy another bottle and hate herself even more. “Okay. Okay. You win, boy. Let’s go for a walk.”

Otis’s mouth curved in a lopsided grin, and he danced in a circle, his tail wagging.

She dodged the damp patches and shards of glass on the floor and grabbed her coat and purse, plus Otis’s leash, from the hook by the door. Shrugging into her wool coat, she flung open the door.

Otis shot through the opening, bounded over the small porch, and raced across the lawn to the back gate, barking in high-pitched excitement.