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.
I turned down Willow Lane, which was just off Main Street. The lane was shaded from the morning sun by two rows of stately red maple trees. Their bright green leaves were pretty now, but in the fall, they would turn a beautiful garnet red.
Ever since the crash, I preferred to walk rather than drive.
I waved to Rylee through the bakery window of Betty’s Biscuits as I passed.
She raised her arm and beckoned me in.
Before I could even say hello, she lifted a croissant close to my mouth. “Try this.”
I took a bite. The buttery pastry melted in my mouth, a perfect complement to the tart sweetness of raspberry preserves coating my tongue. Pushing a crispy flake which clung to my cherry-red gloss past my lips with the tip of my finger, I said, “Oh my god, that is so freaking good.”
“My croissant recipe. Grandma’s preserves recipe,” she answered.
I nodded. “Well, Grandma Betty would be proud.” I took the pastry from her, already reaching for more.
Rylee was one of the first people Hailey and I met when we came to town.
She too had taken advantage of the town’s offer of grant money and rent discounts through a program for new small business owners.
Cliffs End’s way of getting some young blood to relocate here and breathe new life into their downtown district. Rylee had been thrilled to see two women in their twenties like her, and even more excited to learn we had rented the spaces next to her new bakery.
I gave her a quick hug. “I have to go.”
“Wait!” She loaded two more croissants into a pink bakery box and handed them to me. “On the house.”
Ignoring her generous offer, I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out a wrinkled ten-dollar bill.
She waved me off. “Don’t be insulting.”
“You are a new business, too. You can’t just let me eat the profits!”
“They are samples for quality control. You’re one of my best marketers, the way you send all your customers my way. Besides, the Three Bs need to stick together!”
The “Three Bs” was a nickname some of the townspeople had given us. At first, we were horrified, thinking they meant the Three Bitches. Turned out it was for our shop names: Betty’s Biscuits, my Borrowed Time, and Hailey’s Blowing Bubbles. It was the first time any of us had felt like we belonged.
At least, that was, until the crash.
Shaking off the looming dark clouds in my mind, I said, “As soon as I have enough money to buy the espresso machine I want, we’ll talk about you supplying me with pastries for the cafe counter.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The buzzer to her oven in the back went off.
With a quick wave goodbye, she headed into the kitchen, while I left with my gift.
Passing the closed storefront to Hailey’s artisan glass shop, I pulled the keys out of my purse and unlocked the door to my bookstore.
Hailey wouldn’t open her shop for another few hours, one of the perks of being an artist.
I liked to capture the sidewalk traffic, so I opened earlier.
Tossing the pastry box onto the cashier counter, I moved around the store turning on the lights. A soft golden glow spread across the shaded interior, highlighting the neat rows of books, reaching the over-stuffed chairs in the corners.
This bookstore was my sanctuary.
It was hard not to feel that nothing bad could happen to me as I walked between the carefully curated bookshelves.
Turning on the ancient iPod I had hooked up to stereo speakers for ambient music, I flipped over the “Closed” sign to “Open” and snatched up the stack of leather-bound copies of “The Complete Sherlock Holmes,” volumes I and II, that I hadn’t had a chance to shelve last night.
Heading upstairs, I crossed to my favorite area, a massive bay window with cushioned seats. A gnarled tree branch partially blocked the sun, making it feel as if you were sitting among the leaves as you read.
The window was so large, there was room for shelves on either side of the nook. So of course I played favorites by making it the 221B book nook area.
The inherent drive toward solving a mystery was probably in every orphan’s bones. I loved the idea of having a place with cozy little corners to curl up in and read about nefarious criminals and the clever detective who caught them.
After placing the last book on the shelf, I was straightening the framed silhouette print of Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock when the bell over the front door chimed.
I skipped down the stairs toward my first customer of the day but paused at the small landing.
Backlit by the sun, three shadowed figures crossed the threshold.
One immediately detached from the group and headed for the rear of the store.
Gripping the banister until my knuckles whitened, I trudged down the remaining stairs toward the police officers.
There was no reason to be nervous.
I had done nothing wrong.
There had been an investigation.
They knew I hadn’t been the one driving when Jameson and I crashed.
Would I ever be free of the innocent mistake of dating a Worthington?
“Hello, officers. Can I interest you in the latest James Patterson?”
“No thank you, ma’am. Are you Madison Hastings?”
I coughed in an attempt to swallow past my instantly dry throat. “Yes, why?”
He reached for his tactical belt, extracting a pair of handcuffs.
I raised my palms and slowly retreated. “What are you doing?”
“Ma’am, please put your arms behind your back.”
“Wait, stop! Why am I being arrested? What is the charge?”
“First-degree murder.”
My mouth dropped open. Who did they think I murdered? The only death I’d even been near was Jameson’s, and they knew I wasn’t at fault. “What? Wait! Wait! I wasn’t the one driving. I was cleared.”
“Ma’am, please put your hands behind your back.” The officer reached for me again, his hand biting into my shoulder.
“You have to believe me. It wasn’t my fault!”
Talking over me, the officer recited the Miranda warning. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court.”
The cold metal of a handcuff ring slapped around my left wrist.
Breaking free, I bolted for the back door...and ran straight into a wall.
No, not a wall.
Strong hands clasped my upper arms, steadying me. Tilting my head all the way back, I stared into a pair of intense silver-gray eyes. The same eyes that haunted my dreams every night.
Pierce Worthington slowly smiled down at me. “You’re mine now.”