Page 18 of The Princess and the P.I.

Stakeouts were boring until they weren’t.

The old church was a relic from another time, tucked into the overgrown brush of Greenbelt like a secret.

Its spire, chipped and weather-beaten, stretched awkwardly toward the night sky.

The parking lot, cracked and sprouting dandelions, felt like it had been forgotten by the world.

Perfect for a cult. Maurice had parked the car at the far edge of the lot, nose pointed at the exit, engine off.

He didn’t trust churches. Or Greenbelt. If towns in Prince George’s County were people, Greenbelt would be a well-meaning white woman.

He had nodded off twice in the car, jerking awake to find Fiona prodding him like he was a deflated soufflé.

Why, of all things, was he suddenly so narcoleptic around her?

It wasn’t like she exuded soothing vibes; she was wound tighter than a rusty bolt, and yet here he was, drowsy as an old cat in a sunbeam.

“You’re not dying, are you?” she asked, squinting at him.

“Not on your watch,” he muttered, rubbing his face, though honestly, at this rate, death might be the only way he’d ever get rest again.

Fiona sat beside him, the laptop glowing in her lap like a campfire between them. She was typing furiously. Maurice glanced at her, then back to the church.

“You remember a lot about this place?”

“Maurice, my dad told you we’re not high up with this church any longer. When are we going to focus on Robert Thorpe?”

“Patience, Fiona. We’re putting two and two together. The custodians say they’re having late meetings and shredded paperwork.”

“So?” Fiona shrugged.

“The old Prince George’s County coroner requested a copy of Robert Thorpe’s autopsy report. Nothing alarming. Could be a professional consultant. Except—”

“Except the old PG coroner is Mikhail Sparks, the third deacon of the ABBEY Church,” Fiona answered, rolling her eyes.

He was noticing her increasing frustration with his inquiries into the church, but Maurice felt closer than he’d ever been inside.

Fiona shrugged. “David, my family friend, is the head now. Maybe I could ask him.”

But the thought made Maurice’s flesh crawl. David might fool Fiona but not him. What he wanted was stamped on his face, and not even Papa Kofi could deny that.

“Your boyfriend’s got a promotion?” Maurice said.

“Can you be serious?”

“I am serious. David’s the number one in charge now. Do you think that’s connected to Robert’s death?”

“This is not gonna lead us anywhere,” Fiona said, not looking up.

Maurice clocked the weariness, the way her words seemed almost automatic. Fiona hadn’t given David much thought. But Maurice had given Pretty Ricky a lot of thought.

“David doesn’t want anything but to make my dad proud of him.”

“But Papa Kofi doesn’t like him,” Maurice said.

“Are you ridiculous? My dad loves him like a son,” Fiona said.

Maurice just clucked his tongue. Fiona only saw what she wanted to see.

It always amazed him, what women and men saw, and what they refused to see. He didn’t buy into all that gender-essentialist bullshit, but he’d lived long enough to notice the blind spots. How women could miss or misread certain things about men and vice versa.

He thought about this when Amelia had laughed at the very idea of Robert having an affair with Fiona.

Like a man couldn’t see past frumpy clothes and out-of-date hairstyles.

Male interest defied the logic women assigned to it.

That’s why the slim, good little wives—who spent their lives on treadmills and choking down kale—were always so staggered and destabilized by the women their husbands cheated with.

Same with the dudes who claimed to not understand Pete Davidson’s appeal.

“I’m saying David has nothing to do with my case. Presumably why we’re out here,” Fiona said.

Maurice tapped his finger against the steering wheel. “Maybe not. But it doesn’t hurt to watch.”

She snorted softly. “But we…we don’t have time to watch the church, Maurice.”

“True. Which is why we’re not waiting for evidence to come to us.”

“This is an obsession. I don’t think it’s healthy. Why don’t you ask me why I stole the vest? Why aren’t you curious about my case?”

Maurice was tired of talking about this already.

“Do you think this case is about the vest?” He laughed.

“You were caught with it in your bag. We can’t build any evidence to disprove that.

You’re doing a bid for grand larceny, Church Girl.

Not much anybody can do about that. The murder , Fiona.

You were charged with murder . Please separate those two charges. Lock in.”

Fiona turned her attention back to the screen, muttering under her breath. He didn’t catch all of it, but he caught enough. “…doesn’t even care.”

She was wrong. He did care. Just maybe not about what she thought. His job wasn’t to clear her name—it was to find the truth. If the two lined up, so be it.

“How was it? Growing up in there? Shit looks bleak as fuck.”

She let out a slow breath. “Not bleak but small, suffocating. The rules. The judgment. The way everything you did was monitored.” She gestured vaguely at the laptop. “That’s why I started digging into things online. It made me feel bigger—like with my own will, a woman.”

Maurice smirked. “Like a woman, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Like there was more to the world than my dad’s sermons and his…disciples.”

Her voice dipped on the last word, and Maurice caught the edge of something sharp and bitter. Before he could press her, a shadow moved in the church window. Fiona stiffened.

“Is that him?” she whispered.

Maurice leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. It wasn’t Mikhail. The figure was too small, too quick. And then, just like that, the shadow disappeared.

“Probably nothing,” he muttered.

A flicker of movement caught his eye again. This time it wasn’t a shadow. It was Sara.

She burst out of the church’s side door like a rabbit from a trap, a silk scarf wrapped around her hair, shimmering sunglasses on even in the dead of night, but it was her.

Maurice’s mind snapped to a razor-sharp focus, but Fiona grabbed his arm before he could move.

For a breath, they stared at each other, both with a wide-eyed, what the hell is happening right now face. Fiona’s pupils were blown wide with adrenaline, and for the first time in this whirlwind mess, she finally saw that this was connected.

Fiona broke the silence. “Follow her.”

Maurice didn’t need convincing. The Mercedes hummed to life. He tossed the empty cup into the back seat, shifted into drive. “Buckle up.”

Sara’s taillights weaved dangerously as they sped away. Amelia mentioned that Sara had been giving Robert drugs. And they just saw her leaving a meeting presumably with the old coroner? She wanted that tox report. And now Maurice wanted it.

Maurice peeled out onto the road with the precision of a surgeon. His Mercedes hummed like she was hungry for a chase.

“Shouldn’t we call someone?” Fiona’s voice rose, already halfway to panic.

“Who? Detective Ryan’s buddies? You think they’re dropping doughnuts to rush to help me?” He cut her a sidelong glance, smirking. “Sit back. Let me work.”

The tires squealed as they took off, the car surging forward with a low growl. Maurice handled the wheel like it was an extension of his body. Fiona, on the other hand, gripped the door handle and breathed too fast.

“She’s going to kill someone driving like that!” Fiona hissed as Sara wove recklessly between the other cars on the road.

“Not if I catch her first,” Maurice said.

He kept his distance at first, letting Sara think she’d lost them. Then she veered onto a side street, and Maurice’s fingers twitched on the wheel.

“Don’t watch me—watch the road,” he said. “See where she’s going.”

“I can barely see anything!” Fiona snapped.

“Use your gut,” Maurice replied, maddeningly calm. “If you were her, where would you go?”

Fiona squinted, scanning the road ahead. The right turn led to the 495 beltway, a snarling beast of perpetual circular gridlock. And if she banked a left she would move toward 193, a thoroughfare with multiple turnoffs. “Left,” she said. “If I were her, I’d cut left to 193.”

Maurice nodded. “Good call.”

He snapped the wheel sharply, cutting cars off in a spray of honks and tire screeches.

“This is nuts,” Fiona muttered, clutching the seat belt across her chest. “Absolutely nuts.”

“Breathe, Fiona. You’re holding your breath like you’re underwater.”

“I am breathing!”

Sara blew through a red light, and Maurice hesitated, just for a beat.

Fiona faced him, placed her hand over his on the gearshift.

“We have her,” she said. “Go for it.”

Maurice grinned, wide and wolfish. “I like you.”

His foot slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The engine snarled as they tore through the intersection, narrowly missing oncoming traffic. Fiona let out a strangled scream that morphed into an almost delirious laugh as the adrenaline hit her like a shot of pure electricity.

The car skidded onto a dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust. Maurice braked hard, throwing the car into reverse.

“What are you—” Fiona started.

“Shortcut,” he said, spinning the wheel. The car swerved onto a narrow side path. The trees closed in around them, but Maurice kept the car steady. When they burst out onto the main road again, they cut Sara off at an intersection.

Fiona stared at him, chest rising and falling, her eyes wide. “Holy baloney,” she said.

Maurice couldn’t help the blush that crept up his neck. Something about the way she looked at him in that moment—it hit him somewhere deep. He glanced at the rearview mirror, expecting to see himself glowing like some divine figure. Instead, it was just him, the same tired face staring back.

Before he could step out of the car, the wail of police sirens filled the air. Maurice’s knees jumped, his grip tightening on the wheel. Two squad cars rolled up behind them, their lights painting the trees red and blue.