“First-degree murder and nothing less or there will be hell to pay.”
“A judge will throw it out.”
“You leave that to me.”
He let out a resigned sigh. “Yes, Mr. Worthington.”
I strolled to the door and paused. “You have an election coming up, don’t you, John?”
His eyes widened. “Yes.”
I smiled. “I want her arrested. Today. Don’t disappoint me.”
I left without waiting for his response.
I already knew what it would be.
He wouldn’t dare defy me.
No one in this courthouse would, including whatever judge was eventually assigned the case.
CHAPTER 4
MADISON
Everything was going to be okay.
I briefly closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The morning air was fragrant with the citrus rose scent of blooming sweetbay magnolias.
Summer was finally here.
It was time to shake off the nightmares from the past and focus on my future. Focus on what brought me to Cliffs End in the first place.
Both my adoptive and biological parents were gone. With no siblings and no extended family, this small town on the Virginia coast was the closest thing to belonging I’d ever had. And I was determined to reclaim it from the clutches of the nightmares that had plagued me since my arrival.
Cliffs End was a quintessential East Coast town with its Victorian mansions, a cute downtown filled with local shops, and the occasional cobblestone path.
The best part was, absolutely nothing of real historical significance had happened here.
No major Civil War battles.
No birthplace of a founding father.
No revolutionary insurrectionists.
Especially this early in the morning, the town was so still you could hear the rustle of the tree leaves and the buzz of dragonflies. I had only lived here for close to two months, but I was looking forward to the peace and slower pace promised by the warm late-June weather.
While not great for business, it would be a godsend for my sanity. After the accident and the awful aftermath, I craved the comfort of a same-old boring routine in my new bookshop—my dream.
It would give me time to put the finishing touches on the decor, set up the cafe counter, and fully stock the shelves. Endless days of quietly unpacking books and painting and dusting awaited me.
Perhaps if I had been a long-time resident, I would have known what it meant to date a Worthington and have stayed far, far away from them. Now I noticed the name everywhere—on buildings, on plaques, carved into stone.
Always present. Always watching.
Hell, even the building where I rented space for my bookshop had a weathered “Worthington” etched in stone over the doorway. I had just never noticed or made the connection. Honestly, who really cared about the fussy names of a bunch of dead people on buildings, anyway?
The space was a converted bank, that was what made it so freaking cool. Slightly chipped old black-and-white tile floors mixed with beautifully carved dark wood details and the lingering scent of beeswax, lending an air of charm and elegance to the place. It also allowed for cute details like shelving the True Crime and Heist section inside the old vault.
