Page 7 of My Sweet Poison
Then she was gone.
I rolled over and stared out the window at the dark, starless night sky, afraid to go back to sleep.
It wasn’t fear of dreaming about the accident which kept me awake.
No.
It was a pair of glaring eyes that promised vengeance.
I pulled the covers to my chin. This was silly. There was nothing to fear.
It wasn’t like I had any reason to worry about ever seeing Pierce Worthington again.
CHAPTER 3
PIERCE
Iparked the Rolls directly in front of the courthouse.
Strolling past the No Parking sign, I buttoned my suit jacket and gave a nod to the police officer standing nearby.
I wouldn’t be ticketed.
No one ticketed a Worthington.
Our vast estate, Ravenscroft, was perched on top of Dead Man’s Cliff, the sheer rock face looking out over the Atlantic which gave the town its name, Cliffs End. The town we owned.
Half the buildings in town bore our name—the library, the hospital, the high school. The list went on.
No one in Cliffs End who came to the Worthington door with their hand out was turned away, whether they were a resident, a politician, or a priest.
They all got a taste of our wealth.
But nothing was truly free.
And it was time to collect.
The interior of the courthouse was cool and dim.
My footsteps echoed on the polished black stone floor. The same stone we used for my brother Jameson’s memorial.
I suppressed a smirk on my way past a tall bronze statue of a blindfolded Lady Justice.
Two guards leapt to grasp the long brass handles and swung open the heavy double doors which led into the courtroom. As I walked down the middle aisle, several heads turned.
The pressure from their curious gazes bore into me but I brushed it off.
My entrance interrupted Commonwealth’s Attorney John Davis’s summation. The furious scowl on his face was erased the moment he recognized me. I swung open the solid-wood half-door in the bar which separated the court from the public spectator seating and boldly stepped up to the judge’s bench.
The judge addressed me without censure. “Good afternoon, Mr. Worthington. How may the court help you?”
Twenty-five years senior to my thirty years, I’d just rudely interrupted his proceedings, an act that would have gotten a lesser man thrown to the floor and handcuffed for contempt. Not me.
“My apologies, George,” I offered, using the judge’s Christian name. “I need to speak with John.”
George nodded and lifted his gavel. “The court will take a five-minute recess.”
My eyes narrowed. “Make it fifteen.”
