Page 19 of The Princess and the P.I.

Sara took advantage of the commotion and sped away. The cars didn’t even try to follow her.

Maurice slapped the steering wheel.

An officer stepped out of one vehicle, hand on his holstered gun. Maurice recognized him immediately—one of Ryan’s guys.

“Well, if it isn’t Bennett,” the officer said, his tone dripping with mockery. “What are you doing terrorizing innocent citizens?”

Maurice forced a smile. “Community service. You should try it.”

The officer’s gaze slid to Fiona, his smirk widening. “Ms.Addai, right? Good to see you’re keeping good company.”

Fiona’s face twitched with fear. If she was arrested again, her bail could be revoked. She opened her mouth, but Maurice cut her off.

“We were just headed home. No need to call anything in.”

The officer’s face was flat. “Well, allow me to escort you.”

Maurice’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. “Lead the way.”

The squad car followed them all the way back to the Gaylord, its flashing lights like a spotlight on their failure. Maurice gripped the wheel tighter with every block, his jaw set, his knuckles tight. It felt like being marched to the principal’s office.

Back at the suite, Fiona paced. “I have never almost died more times.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Her mood was infectious. “You were good out there, Fi.”

“Well, we lost her, so I’m not sure what we have.” Fiona leaned against the kitchen bar.

“We have a second lead with motive. That’s huge,” Maurice said.

“Wait a second, who is the first lead?”

Maurice pushed off the couch, his demeanor shifting, serious now. He stepped closer to her, and he got a tiny little zip of excitement from her shallow breath.

“Fiona, I know why you stole the vest,” he said, his eyes locked on hers, watching for a little tell.

“I knew Robert’s leap from doggy tags to sophisticated tech reeked of theft.

I’m guessing Robert stole that tech?” Her mouth opened, but no words came.

Her body would tell him the truth if her mouth didn’t, and she was telling all over the place.

Maurice pressed on. “Maybe the church had a financial stake? Maybe they lost out when Robert went big. That’s a motive, Fiona.

A very sexy motive. And it makes you murder suspect number one. ”

—

Fiona’s eyes flicked open in the darkness of her hotel room. For what felt like the hundredth time that night, her dreams had turned into strange, looping reels of Maurice’s voice, his movements.

A very sexy motive , he’d said, leaning in too close.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The image of his face hovered there, just as vivid.

I like you.

You were good out there.

Get thee behind me! she prayed.

At 4:47 a.m. Maurice called her.

“Is he dead?” she muttered, reaching for the phone. No one called at this hour with good news.

Maurice’s voice came through the receiver, calm and dry. “Oh, you answered. I was going to leave a message. Are you up?”

“I am now.”

“Good. Meet me downstairs in the lobby in twenty minutes. The earlier we get to the convention center side of this hotel, the easier it’ll be to sneak in.”

“Sneak?” Fiona’s voice rose, still half asleep.

“Technically, yes. Get dressed.” The line went dead before she could ask anything else.

—

The convention center was eerily quiet at five fifteen a.m. Fiona shivered despite herself, the chill of the early morning cutting through the thin layers she’d thrown on.

She never thought she’d be back in this space.

Maurice shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked, beanie down over his ears, his boots clicking softly.

He wore his usual uniform: dark jeans, a heavy black coat.

He looked like someone who thrived in the dark, in the quiet moments before the world woke up.

Fiona trailed behind, clutching her notebook like it might shield her from Robert’s angry spirit.

“This way,” Fiona whispered, pushing open the door to the greenroom.

The space was smaller than she remembered. Ordinary, even: a mismatched collection of chairs, a folding table with coffee stains, and a couch with a sagging middle.

Fiona stopped near the center of the room, her gaze darting around as if the walls might hold the answers. “This is where he stood,” she said, pointing toward the door. “He and Mark were talking over the setup. Arguing, maybe.”

Maurice nodded, his gaze sweeping over the room and the equipment scattered nearby. He stepped closer, crouching to examine the couch. “Where was the vest?”

“Here,” Fiona said, gesturing toward the stand beside him. “Sara was standing right behind it.”

Maurice’s hands brushed the air like he was feeling for something invisible.

Fiona nodded. “Yes, on a hanging rack.”

“Mark took it off the hanger,” she said, voice soft but certain. “Gave it to Sara. Then Robert took it from her and handed it to me onstage.”

“So.” Maurice rose to his full height, hands resting on his hips as he surveyed the room again. “Everybody touched the damned vest.”

Fiona nodded. “There were four cartridges to tamper with. They were supposed to be filled with B 12 .”

“But the police only found three,” Maurice finished, his dark eyes snapping to hers.

“Then the missing cartridge…” Fiona trailed off, her throat tightening. “That’s the murder weapon.”

Maurice’s gaze swept over the room again, but his attention wasn’t on the greenroom anymore. “The switch didn’t happen here,” he said. “Too many people. Too many eyes. Someone would’ve noticed. That means the window is smaller than we think.”

“Five minutes,” Fiona said.

“Explain.”

“There was a five-minute window where the camera was off in the hallway to the greenroom. Robert likes to put on his hairpiece—”

Maurice’s mouth quirked up in a humorless smile. “Vanity will get you every time. So, the hallway.”

Fiona nodded. “If the cameras were off, the killer could’ve waited there. Switched the B 12 cartridge for something lethal right before it got to the greenroom.”

Maurice moved into the hallway, his steps silent now, his posture tense. He stopped under the cameras, glancing up at the darkened lenses. “If I didn’t know these were off,” he said, “this is where I’d stand. I’d switch the cartridge here.”

“And if Sara…” Fiona hesitated. But Maurice’s eyes coaxed her to continue. “If Sara knew, if she wanted the tox report, maybe it’s because—”

“She knows what she’s looking for,” Maurice interrupted. “And she’s covering her tracks.”

He smiled faintly, turning toward the main hall. “Let’s get those tox reports. Sara is priority. If we’re right, this just got a lot simpler.”

As they stepped into the hallway, a thought struck Fiona, sharp and sudden. “What if Sara wasn’t trying to cover her tracks?” she asked. “What if she’s trying to protect someone?”

Maurice didn’t respond immediately. His sharp gaze flickered back to hers, something unreadable crossing his face. “Then we’re chasing a killer with a network,” he said quietly. “With the efficiency of a cult.”