Page 14 of The Princess and the P.I.

Four Hours Earlier

r/PrinceGeorge’sCounty

Princess_PI: Has anyone ever reburied a body? From county graves to another site?

Fiona thought of leaving all the time, but it had always been a fantasy, a flicker of possibility never acted on. Now it was real, and it scared her.

Esi had told her to get out. “Before you lose your mind in that house,” her sister had said, “get out while you still can.” Fiona always found an excuse not to.

Her father’s face when she left—that was what she couldn’t bear.

Not the grief of it but the bewilderment, the confusion she remembered so clearly from the day they found Kwesi.

Her father hadn’t cried, hadn’t screamed. He’d looked stunned, as though Kwesi’s death defied logic. Kwesi was young, beautiful, trusting—too trusting—and somehow, that was the part her father fixated on, the trust. As if it had been a sin, as if it had killed him.

Her father had always been devout, but his zeal had hardened into something obsessive after Kwesi’s death.

It was like he was retroactively purifying his life.

Their rules became more and more severe with every child’s desertion.

When her sister left, her mother and father pressed down even harder on Fiona, monitoring every aspect of her life.

Now, she sat in the house like Alice in Wonderland, hiccupping and growing feet that stretched and pushed out of the front door.

The dining table was still set for five, even though it had been just the two of them for years now. And when they ate together it was in silence, on the couch, the TV blaring white evangelical preachers hawking anointing oil on TBN.

Fiona’s room hadn’t changed much since she was fourteen, and she scanned the room absently for what she wanted to bring with her. Not much.

She flipped open her laptop.

Her subreddit, r/PrivateDicksandJanes, was already open. Her first post of the day—a side-by-side comparison proving Damion and Lucy from Spinster Island were still sleeping together—had exploded. Fiona smirked at the comments:

@SherlockHomie: Y’all couldn’t wait for the reunion show?

@MissMarpleStan: They do it for the ratings!

@NoShitLockHolmes: They think they’re fooling us. I’m done with this show .

Navigating through the endless Ebony Woods post about the local slain ballerina, Fiona stumbled upon a subreddit that piqued her interest:

r/WhoIsTheWomanInTheMist

The title stopped her cold.

She clicked.

The subreddit was buzzing with activity, seventy users online dissecting the Thorpe case.

Fiona’s stomach twisted as she scrolled through the posts.

They’d compiled timelines, shared rumors, posted blurry screenshots from the expo.

Most of it was nonsense, but some of it was eerily accurate, details only someone with inside knowledge would have.

And then she saw it.

A photo of herself.

The air seemed to vanish from the room.

The image was grainy, distorted by the fog from the stage, but it was unmistakably her.

In that shimmering dress with the vanishing waist, her eyes were wild, and the light exposure tinted them red like a blurred photo of a cat.

She looked otherworldly, a ghost haunting the edges of the crime scene.

Fiona’s hands hovered over the keyboard.

For a moment, she was paralyzed, panic rising in her chest. But then something shifted.

She wasn’t just Fiona Addai, the girl too afraid to leave her father’s house.

Here, online, she was Princess_PI. She didn’t know which version of her was real, only that they both existed.

She typed:

We should really be looking into Mark Henderson. He had too much to gain from Robert Thorpe’s death.

The responses came in fast, a cascade of excitement.

@lostNDaSauce: Princess_PI! Where have you been?

@WhodunnitWannabe: What do you know about Mark?

@RedThreadDetective: Finally! We need your insight on this case!

The rush of validation was intoxicating. This was her realm, her power. Here, she didn’t misstep. She was the expert, the authority.

“Fiona.” Her father’s voice was terse. “Gather your things. So help me, child, your leather jacket boy better pass inspection.”

Fiona glanced at the door, her jaw tightening. She was leaving. This time, she wouldn’t stop.

And nothing—not her father, not his rules, not his crooked God—was going to bring her back.

—

They drove to the Oxon Hill office in expectant silence, but everything went downhill when Fiona got a look at the woman who opened the door.

She wore a revealing leather V-neck with a ripped denim skirt that made Fiona want to trace the frayed edges of the hem.

What she would give to walk around in leather anything.

She knew from her research that this woman was LeDeya, Maurice’s little sister who Fiona was older than but only in years.

Her father dropped his gaze, and LeDeya flopped her hand in the general direction of the front room.

Maurice sat at his desk, and Fiona’s breath did a funny little catch at the back of her throat. He didn’t even look up but pointed to two seats on the other side of his desk.

His office smelled like artificial air freshener, and his chairs were just a cut above foldout. Worse, the store next door’s music bled through the walls, and all manner of crimes were being described in alarming detail via tongue-twisting rap through the muffled speakers.

Her father tensed at her side, and Fiona was just about ready to grab him by the arm and run, too, because Maurice looked like he was in a lousy mood.

He was dressed in slim black jeans and a black D.A.R.E.

shirt, and the black balaclava he was wearing as a beanie made him look like he was about to go boost an ATM.

On the plus side, he did look like he’d finally gotten a few hours of sleep, and it made a difference.

With curls twirling out from under his beanie, shadowy eyelashes, and skin the color of hard fried chin chin , Maurice looked like the cool sub the school district was too understaffed to do a background check on.

“Mr.Addai,” he said in greeting as he stood up from his desk, letting his gaze flick to Fiona. “Fiona.”

Her name on his lips was a low hum, pulling her focus like a magnet. Fiona’s tongue felt too thick for her mouth. She was not ready for how pissed he would be to suddenly realize she was leaving her home without a plan. Or rather, that her plan was vaguely…him.

But she hadn’t spoken yet, and Maurice’s eyes slid back to her father, his expression tightening into something less polite. “To what do I owe this visit?”

Kofi didn’t sit, didn’t soften. He looked Maurice up and down with disdain so palpable Fiona winced. “I want to know what kind of game you’re playing with my daughter.”

Maurice leaned back in his chair, tilting his head slightly. “Game?”

“You’re using her to get to me. But let me tell you this: no amount of late-breaking news will make you a hero,” Kofi continued. “No matter how many times you go over it, you are the lazy detective.”

Maurice ignored him entirely, turning instead to Fiona. “Want a Coke, Princess?”

Fiona blinked. The word wasn’t for her father. He was using their code, silently asking, Do you need me?

“Princess?” Kofi spat out the name. “Are you flaunting your disrespect?”

Fiona’s breath caught again. Maurice’s words were reckless. She scrambled to smooth things over, to keep the air from cracking apart.

“I was telling Dad,” she began quickly, “that maybe staying away for a while might help—”

“Help what?” Maurice asked, his tone sharper now.

“To get things done,” Fiona mumbled, feeling her father’s glare boring into her.

“Do you even know what you want?” Maurice pressed. “Speak up.”

Her eyes snapped to his, and for a moment, the room disappeared. His gaze pinned her in place, pulling her apart, examining every piece of her, finding every way but verbal to call her a coward.

“I…Yes,” she stammered. “I mean—Maurice has a contract with the MGM conference center and the Gaylord, Dad.” She avoided the word casino like it was a land mine. “I’m sure there’s some kind of benefit the hotel gives him. He could set me up…like a princess.”

Maurice’s lips curved into a slow, almost wicked smile, and Fiona’s heart stumbled in her chest.

“Exactly!” LeDeya’s voice cut through the tension. “Maurice needs an assistant.” She looked like she’d struck gold.

“I do not,” Maurice said flatly.

“You do,” LeDeya countered, her grin sharp. “You’re running through assistants like water. Fiona’s perfect for the job.”

“LeDeya is my assistant—” Maurice said.

“ Not by choice, and Fiona is perfectly qualified for the task.”

“So I could work here. Work off the bail money. I also do some martial arts,” Fiona encouraged.

“You’re hired.” LeDeya said it so fast it gave Fiona whiplash. “The hours are long and the clients are terrible. Plus, Maurice is a control freak.”

“Deya—” Maurice protested.

“I will not give my daughter away to a den of iniquity,” Kofi interrupted.

“No iniquity here.” LeDeya showed her brother’s palms as if iniquity would be balled up in his fist.

Fiona’s head swam. She couldn’t decide which battle to fight—her father’s overbearing control or Maurice’s maddening aloofness.

“I need Fiona with me,” Maurice said suddenly.

The words burned into her, and she straightened her shoulders.

Kofi snapped his fingers in front of Maurice’s eyes, locked as they were in a silent dare with Fiona’s. This was one of the few times she wouldn’t blame her father for sensing something sinister at work.

“You keep your eyes and your hands off of my child.” Kofi’s voice was a low warning.

Maurice held his hands high as if once again showing no iniquity in the vicinity.

His gaze moved over her like a hand, like he was searching for bruises and cuts.

He looked at her when she spoke. It was such a small thing.

But his body turned to her like what she had to say was important.

Even when her father spoke over her, Maurice redirected the questions back to her. Like she was the smart one.

“Some of my investigations run late into the night,” Maurice said, finally turning back to Kofi. “We decided it’s safer if Fiona stays at the hotel.”

Kofi’s fury was a tangible thing. “I do not trust you, Mr.Bennett.”

Maurice’s voice was calm. “Oh, you shouldn’t, Papa Kofi, not with the way that TechXpo dress keeps”—he spun his finger at his temple and whistled—“running around up here. But maybe you should trust your daughter.”

The room was whisper quiet. Maurice had perfected looking bored while Kofi puffed himself up, both intimidation tactics. But only one of them worked.

“I am telling you, child,” Kofi said finally. “Do not make me choose between you and the scriptures. If you come back sullied, do not come back at all.”

Fiona, as it turned out, would not come back at all.