Page 20 of The Princess and the P.I.

r/PrivateDicksandJanes

ToTran: Uhh. bro TF…he died of Murder.

It was getting dark earlier now toward the end of September.

It had been a week since the car chase with Sara, and the adrenaline still pulsed through her veins at odd moments, unbidden.

Three weeks since she was dragged by security into the back of a police car and the same public defender called her every week asking her about a pretrial deal.

He wanted some easy way out. Fiona only answered in the same flat tone, “I plan to plead not guilty to the murder charge.”

Tonight, Fiona sat cross-legged on the buttery hotel bedspread, her laptop balanced precariously on her knees.

Her hotel room began to feel like home after she bought a low-maintenance plant.

In the slivers of time carved out just for her, unclaimed by Maurice, Fiona walked the length of the harbor like someone relearning the feel of the earth underfoot.

She let the wind unmake her hair. Let the sun land on her skin.

Let men smile at her. She slipped into the little shops one by one, running her fingers over scented candles and T-shirts with slogans she didn’t understand.

At MahoganyBooks, she bought a romance novel with a man on the cover who looked like he could carry her across a flood.

She hadn’t read it yet—only held it close like a promise.

On the artificial beach, the one with sand shipped in on a budget and no tide in sight, she moved through the kata of her old jujitsu routines.

In these weeks, she was becoming something like herself.

The tea she’d made an hour ago had gone cold, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Her focus was fixed on the glowing screen in front of her, her fingers twitching over the trackpad as she scrolled through thread after thread on r/FinancialAdvice and r/SideHustle.

She’d stumbled onto his digital trail months ago, a lucky break during a company meeting.

Mark had been mid-presentation, screen sharing a spreadsheet, somewhere between “synergizing verticals” and “value alignment,” when a tiny notification popped up.

Hey @Tuffluv23 we can talk early retirement ASAP .

Innocuous enough, just one of those background blips most people would miss.

But Fiona wasn’t most people. Her brain logged it immediately.

Tuffluv23. The name was too try-hard, too corny.

And also? Weirdly on-brand for Mark. She scribbled it in the margin of her notepad, and now it had become the thread she was pulling at.

Another post, buried deeper in r/SideHustle, caught her attention:

Passive Income Ideas That Don’t Involve Tech?

@Tuffluv23: I’m looking to step away from the rat race. Want to move abroad. What are some off-the-grid options that aren’t total scams? Bonus points if they work in Ghana.

Fiona’s teeth ground together, the faint squeak of her molars filling the quiet room. Ghana. He’d mentioned it before, a throwaway comment about a plot of land he owned there. Fiona knew the exact plot of land. It belonged to her mother’s family, left to Kwesi. How dare he make plans on their back.

The breadcrumbs were everywhere, scattered across months, even years, of threads.

A comment about dealing with “toxic leadership,” dripping with resentment.

Another, buried in a thread about offshore banking, asking how to discreetly open an account.

And then the most chilling of all, posted in r/EscapeTheNineToFive:

@Tuffluv23: How much money do you need to disappear?

If you wanted to leave the country, cut all ties, and start fresh somewhere cheap, what’s a realistic number.

Her cursor hovered over the most recent post, dated just a week ago. The tone was sharper, more urgent:

@Tuffluv23: Selling out of a startup—how to handle non-disclosure agreements? Legal advice welcome.

Selling out? How long had he been planning this? Months? Years? Had he been laying the groundwork for Robert’s downfall all along?

A theory crystallized with a sudden, chilling clarity: Mark sabotaged the vest. Why?

Fiona leaned back against the headboard, her laptop warming her thighs. Her social media tabs stared back at her, accusing in their familiarity. One, in particular, mocked her:

Open Tab

Post: Maurice Bennett RPG

A post on some relationship advice forum linked to Maurice’s gamer ex-girlfriend. She wrote the post about him that went mega viral a few years ago, describing dating Maurice like playing a video game.

How to Date Maurice Bennett: The RPG

Alright, so you think you wanna date Maurice Bennett? Cool, cool. But first—you gotta run the gauntlet. This ain’t for the weak.

Level 1: The Youngest Sister. Comes with a sharp tongue and an eyeball shade. In case you’re wondering, she is laughing AT you not WITH you. Your dialogue options? Limited.

Level 2: The Eldest Sister . Ice Queen. Can smell bullshit from a mile away. Will ask you math questions just to see you look dumb. Warning: She has already forgotten your name.

Level 3: The Middle Sister. A stone-cold bitch , and proud of it. Will make you doubt every life choice you’ve ever made. If you survive her judgment, you might actually be worth something.

Final Boss: HIS MOTHER. The gatekeeper of all gatekeepers. Defeating her requires reciting the Beatitudes, an airtight five-year plan, and the ability to fold a fitted sheet on command.

Bonus Round: Maurice Himself. After all that? He is still only half feeling you.

You still wanna play?

Fiona snorted despite herself. Did Maurice know the world was terrified of his sisters? That people braced for impact when they walked into a room?

She slammed the laptop shut and slid it under the bed, the thud swallowed by the limp hotel carpet. Then she sat still for a beat. Something prickled at her skin.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing the cool carpet, and padded over to the window.

The curtains were heavy—one of those industrial hotel blends designed to block out guilt and daylight in equal measure.

She reached for the edge and yanked it just far enough to peek through.

A face.

Fiona’s breath caught in her throat. A man stood underneath the fake palm trees below, his broad back turned slightly, but his profile and stance were unmistakable. A heavy from her father’s old church.

Her pulse thudded.

Was he watching her?

Her fingers tightened on the curtain’s edge.

Who else could they be watching?

Her breath came shallow, fast. She didn’t know anything about the Tameka case—what else could they need?

She let the curtain fall, her hands trembling as she backed away from the window.

She needed to tell Maurice. She needed to act. But the thought of stepping outside, of walking past that man, or anyone like him, made her legs feel like water.

Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed, her voice a whisper in the dim room, reciting (ironically) the Beatitudes.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

The words felt…comfortless.

Her body moved before her mind did. Up. To the door. Checking the locks. Again. She yanked the curtains tighter, but not before pressing her face to the small slit of glass. The parking lot below was empty.

She exhaled, trying to think, trying to plan. But the silence in the room wasn’t neutral. It was pressing and heavy like a hand on her head.

She sank back onto the bed, pulse loud in her ears. She counted seconds.

Then—

The front door handle jiggled. Hard.

She stopped breathing.