Page 17 of The Princess and the P.I.
The next morning Fiona woke up to a text from her sister.
The text was in all caps.
YOU WERE ARRESTED?
Her sister never texted. Fiona called the number.
“Esi?” Hope, excitement, and a touch of reticence tinged Fiona’s voice. Was this a real conversation or just a hit-and-run call to collect information and disappear?
“Fiona, arrested for murder? Theft? You moved out of the compound? I can’t land on which piece of information is the craziest.”
“I’m out on bail,” Fiona said, rushing to explain. “We’re gathering evidence before pretrial—”
“Did Daddy get you a lawyer?”
Fiona hesitated, and the silence answered for her.
“He said church funds are tied up, so—”
“So he’s going with his lawyer-in-the-courtroom, doctor-in-the-sickroom routine, huh? Pray and hope for a miracle.” Esi’s laugh was brittle. “Classic.”
Fiona stayed silent. It was true. Her father’s entire strategy: wait on the Lord.
“And you’re, what—doing your own investigation?”
“Well, Maurice is helping. He—”
“Maurice who?”
“Bennett.”
Silence. A sharp inhale. Then—
“Wait. Wait…No, is he slim?”
“Yeah.”
“Peanut butter brown?”
“Sure.”
“Bedroom eyes like he wants to give you a UTI?”
“Um…maybe?” Fiona grimaced.
“Wild, Fiona. I…I’m stunned.”
“I was too—”
“What does Maurice even want with you?” Esi asked.
“He bailed me out so—”
“He bailed you out? How much was that?”
“A lot,” Fiona said with a touch of guilt. “But I’m kind of his assistant.”
“Fiona, no. No to all of this. An azaa boy? Truly? What are you doing ? You know he hates everyone in that church. Including you.”
“He’s helping me—”
“This is not some Disney teen movie where the captain of the football team notices the girl. He is using you to take Dad down.”
Fiona swallowed hard. She wanted to argue, to insist that Maurice was different. But was he? And was she defending him or herself to her sister right now?
“Esi, I’m in real trouble, and he was—is the only person taking me seriously.”
“Okay, so your choices are the Holy Ghost is your lawyer or a Disney prince is your savior. I honestly don’t know which one is more delusional.”
A point of clarification: “Maurice is no Disney prince.”
Esi sighed. “Here’s what I can do: I can shake the WhatsApp network for a real lawyer and check the conditions of your bail. I don’t like the idea of Maurice holding your bail, and I’ll try to transfer ownership or something. That man is too dangerous to owe.”
“Thank you, Esi.”
“Give me the address to his office. I think I may pay your certified lover boy a visit.” Esi hung up, and Fiona just sat staring at the wall. Esi’s flat pragmatism made Fiona feel young, idiotic. She had to think about what Maurice actually wanted from her.
Why had he never asked her why she stole the vest? Why wasn’t he curious about her motives? Maybe it didn’t matter to him because he had no intention of helping her.
Fiona rummaged through the suitcase and pulled out another shapeless brown dress, wrinkled from her rushed packing.
She had never been self-conscious about her clothes until she was under Maurice’s careful scrutiny.
Now this dowdy dress was embarrassing, but her best option.
She lay on her stomach with her feet crossed and pulled open her laptop.
Her browser tabs told a story of multiple rabbit holes.
New Tab
Post: Anyone notice on Law and Love Episode 9 Season 10 they are eating more pancakes at the end of the scene than they had in the opening?
Fiona typed lazily:
Yes Rebecca the Head of Continuity was having an affair with the director. Season 9 was all over the place.
She would never tell Maurice this and would defend her community till the end, but she tired of these desperate reality TV speculations.
Living vicariously through glamorous reality TV stars used to be her whole life.
She would devote eight to nine hours a day watching episodes and analyzing interactions frame by frame.
Their life was her life. But as her arraignment date marched toward her, the hunger for reality TV gossip leached out of her, and the forums clocked her absence.
r/TechTeaAndReceipts
Post: Surprised at how iVest went from making those location tags for your dog to these really advanced wearables? Had they always been working on this? It feels so random.
Fiona typed.
@Princess_PI: Right? It makes you wonder if the tech is even theirs.
@404MoralsNotFound: There is so much rampant stealing in tech I wouldn’t put it past them.
@Princess_PI: How would anybody prove it?
@404MoralsNotFound: Copyright protection is a joke and it doesn’t stop anyone from outright copying your code.
@Princess_PI: What about a patent?
@404MoralsNotFound: Patents are expensive AF and complex. Us regular folk couldn’t dream of it.
New Google Tab
She typed. How to dress for… Delete.
How to look…
She deleted that too. Then typed: How to hide big hips and breasts and look elegant…
The knock on her door was soft and rapid.
Fiona clicked away from the YouTube tutorials and pressed the wrinkles away from her dress.
When she pulled open the door, Maurice backed into the living area, pulling a rolling whiteboard with Post-it notes.
He wore soft green wide-leg trousers and a white argyle sweater. He looked like he had just come back from golfing in 1932. After she had argued the point with her sister, Fiona conceded that Maurice did look a little like Prince Naveen in this light.
Maurice set up the whiteboard, calling room service with casual authority. He moved through the suite as if he owned it, his presence so commanding that Fiona felt the walls shrink.
She had wanted this freedom, had spent years imagining what it might feel like—light, buoyant, sweet like yellow cake. But suddenly, alone in this suite with his light fingers and heavy eyes, Fiona had the first inkling that she was in over her head with Maurice Bennett.
“I got a tip about the church leadership building. Has it moved?”
“Yes, it’s in Greenbelt now. My dad…or Riverdale is demoted.”
“Politics,” Maurice said, nodding like it made perfect sense. “Could you write me a brief on that demotion?”
“Sure,” she said, though the word tasted wrong in her mouth.
She didn’t want to write a brief. She didn’t even know why she agreed to it other than her disgusting need to practice being a helpmate at all times .
Her women’s study course at church had been nothing more than a syllabus on submission: believe what the men tell you.
Fathers, brothers, husbands—God’s truth, filtered through their lips.
And Fiona had proudly hung her Miss Obedience pageant crowns all around her room.
She’d won three times! It was something she would hide from her daughters.
Room service arrived, and Fiona caught the quick slip of far too many bills changing hands. The server’s eyes widened; he lunged for a hug, but Maurice extended a stiff arm, Heisman style.
“Just keep your eyes peeled for me,” he said.
This was how he operated, Fiona saw, through the quiet machinery of the informal economy, smooth and efficient.
Maurice scribbled something in his notebook, the scratch of pen on paper filling the silence.
She watched him, trying to understand if this was what being taken advantage of felt like.
He didn’t demand anything from her, not explicitly.
But there was a gravity to him that drew her in anyway, made her want to give more than she should.
That was dangerous. She saw it with Amelia and her friends.
The way Maurice had this sly, sideways smile that invited recklessness, a smile that seemed to say, It’s fine, go ahead, let yourself slip.
“Well, some folks who service the Greenbelt building have been talking,” he said, passing her a tray of fresh fruit.
Fiona picked through the fruit tray for the strawberries and found herself in a race with Maurice, who apparently preferred strawberries too. “Your custodian connections,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said, mouth half-full of strawberries. “They say the late-night meetings have increased and the trash is suddenly all ‘shred only.’ We’re going to pay them a visit tonight.”
Their hands collided over the last strawberry, and instinctively, Fiona pulled hers back, retreating like she always had. “Have it,” she said, her voice light, dismissive. She reached for a grape instead.
Maurice paused, the berry poised between his fingers, his gaze fixed on her. “You know,” he said slowly, “it’s okay to want something for yourself, Fiona.”
Fiona blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh it off or let it land. Did he mean the strawberry? Something else? She wasn’t sure, but something inside her—raw and still half-formed—stirred.
She plucked the strawberry from his fingers and popped it into her mouth.