Page 21 of The Princess and the P.I.

“It’s me.” That familiar voice. Low and slow and smooth as peanut butter.

“Maurice?” She was confused. She pulled the door open.

She wanted to laugh, but her nerves were strung too tightly for relief.

He held up two grocery bags. “You want eggs?”

“It’s ten thirty at night” was all she said, but she wanted to shake his shoulders. There are people after me.

“Do eggs have a time limit?”

“No.” She thought of her father eating eggs and pepper in the middle of the night or her mother making egg stew for them on cold nights. If Maurice knew how much Ghanaians love eggs, he would have thought twice before showing up to her suite with them.

She should tell him, right? He never seemed to get ruffled.

But this working relationship felt too new.

He didn’t need that great a reason to send her packing back to the compound.

She was trying to rely less on social media to understand him, but it was hard.

Three weeks wasn’t forever, but she could see that, for all his itineraries and constant lists, he ran his business with no consistency and had an incomprehensible sliding scale.

He helped find a desperate mother’s children after their father had run off with them, and all he charged was two weeks of cleaning the office, while he overcharged police departments and companies for simple clerical work that he whipped up in fifteen minutes.

Just when she thought he was tireless and virtuous, he would turn down desperate people with noble cases and accept cheap chippy work.

Why do you only take cases like this? she’d asked, filing away a picture of a man tangled up in the sheets with two other bodies.

I’m afraid adultery keeps the lights on , he had said with a shrug. If your moral compass is pointed too hard north, this might not be the life for you .

What about this cold case? Fiona had asked, incredulous. That ballerina who died up in Potomac? They’re offering you a fortune.

She didn’t understand it. He punched below his weight.

If you had a gift like his, if you possessed that kind of slippery charisma and insane attention to detail, wouldn’t you wield it everywhere?

Why limit yourself to this—drunken husbands caught with their pants down, petty dramas unraveling in suburban cul-de-sacs?

But his answers were never satisfactory, and it always brought her back to searching online, trying to figure him out.

In the suite, she looked at his shoes, and he sheepishly pulled off his creased Nikes to reveal one blue sock and one black one. Does he actually have attention to detail?

He rummaged through the shelves in the tiny kitchenette. “So, something you should know about me is that I think the best detective work, even in this digital age, is done in interviews.” He paused and looked at her.

“Then I’m cooked.”

“No, there are some techniques you can use to get better,” he said.

She crossed her arms on the couch, watching him move around the kitchen. She didn’t understand only “having eggs” and just stopping by her suite. The skepticism came naturally, but the relief—well, that snuck up on her. Because truthfully, she was relieved to see him.

The church had been watching her. That much she knew. They wanted her to know they were there. That’s what made it worse. It made her skin feel tight and made her jump at sharp noises.

He unpacked the groceries with a magician’s flair, pulling out eggs, a carton of milk, butter, and a block of cheese. The mundane routine of it all clashed so violently with her roiling emotions that she almost screamed.

He looked up at her then, one brow raised. “You want to sit there and vibrate, or are you going to help?”

“I didn’t ask you to cook.” She thought of her sister’s words. This was a dangerous man to owe. Why was he here at nearly eleven? Was he here to get payment for services rendered ?

“And yet…” He trailed off.

She stood reluctantly, stepping into the small space beside him, their shoulders brushing.

She took the empty bags from his hands and placed them in a drawer, watching him carefully. “Maurice, why’d you really come by?”

His ears darkened—a true marvel, really, how a man that quick and sharp could be so transparently flustered.

A beat. Then another. He shifted his weight like he found something.

“I told you about the Turner case. Grandma claiming mail theft, accusing her neighbor, who coincidentally is her ex-husband.”

Fiona nodded.

“Followed up on your theory,” he said.

Fiona handed him her phone, opened an Instagram photo carousel. “It was her grandson, right?” she said flatly. She flashed the image of a young man with a spread of fifties up his arm. “He posts every Tuesday afternoon.”

“After the mail runs,” Maurice finished.

“I don’t think she’ll press charges, though,” Fiona said, folding her arms. “Her daughter died when he was a boy. He’s all she has left.”

Maurice hummed, setting the phone down. “I met with her this morning. You’re right—she won’t. That case is closed. She works at the Giant Food and gave me a grocery card as payment, though.”

“So now you’re cooking because I made a lucky guess,” Fiona said. It was quick if it was a lie. Convenient if it was the truth.

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Not luck. You’re good at this. Trust your instincts.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Fiona asked.

“If you get me the butter.”

“Always quid pro quo with you.” She handed him the stick. His hands moved deftly, cracking eggs, whisking them with butter, and tilting the pan just so. It was soothing, watching him work.

“Why don’t you sleep?”

His eyes rocketed to hers. “Is it that obvious?”

“ I think so,” Fiona said.

“Uh…” He stirred the eggs with slow, delicate movements. “I see them,” he said finally. “The cases. The ones I couldn’t solve, the people I couldn’t save. When I close my eyes, I think of ways that would have been faster, better. Then I look over at the clock, and it’s morning.”

“That’s probably not healthy.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I got that memo.”

“Are you…” Fiona hesitated, her stomach twisting. She had to ask, even though she didn’t want to. Her life was on the line. “Are you clean?”

His hands stilled. For a moment, he didn’t answer, the silence pulled like taffy between them. Finally, he turned to her, his eyes dark and steady. “I am. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize this case—or your freedom.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Can I show you some pretty lucky research I did on Mark?”

“Okay, settle down. Let’s hear it.”

“Mark’s internet history,” she began, watching his forearms flex as he worked the pan, “it’s a trail of breadcrumbs.

Tips on getting tax breaks on capital gains, guides to going off the grid.

He’s been planning this windfall for years, and then, four months ago—nothing.

Some deals didn’t go through. Now, all of this was before my time at the company, but when I got there six months ago, everyone was deflated about a sale that didn’t go through. ”

Maurice grunted.

“Now look at this.”

Her fingers curled around the edges of the newspaper she slapped down with too much force. The headline glared up at them both:

Embattled iVest Ready to Move On After Tragedy

“Maybe…” Maurice cocked his head, following her train of thought. “But you’re a few steps ahead. We’re missing a huge element. The fifty-million-dollar vest killed someone. It’s tech suicide to purchase it. Whoever wants it is going to want to be on the DL. They wouldn’t announce it like this.”

So, you don’t think the story is real?” Fiona leaned closer, her pulse kicking up.

“I don’t think they’ve opened up talks again.

” He rubbed the back of his neck like he was wrestling with a thought.

“I think this is an invitation—a dog whistle that they are still open for negotiation. If you’re right about Mark and his money troubles, I’d bet my last dollar he’s the one who planted it. ”

Fiona’s stomach twisted. Finally, something real on Mark. “Can’t I share this with my public defender? Show them there are other suspects?”

“Patience, Fiona,” Maurice said. The eggs in the pan began to coalesce, a slow, hypnotic dance under Maurice’s deft manipulation. “Like with these eggs. Rush them, and they’ll turn on you; shit gets rubbery and downright unpalatable.”

Fiona gripped the counter harder.

“Okay, then let’s talk to Mark. You, that is, not me. I’m still terrible at it.”

As he gently folded the eggs, coaxing them into soft, pillowy curds, he mused, “Fiona, eggs have this critical moment when they transform from liquid to the perfect scramble. Interviewing is like that. You just need the intuition to know when to strike and when to turn down the heat.”

He plated the eggs, and Fiona sampled them with shaking hands. They were buttery and fluffy and creamy all at once. But Fiona could find little joy in them. She had a lead with Mark, and it felt right.

“How’d you get so good at making eggs?”

Maurice, with a tiny flicker of a smile, looked at her again.

His eyes felt like an assault on her senses.

They were so large and expressive that he must have gotten everything he ever asked for as a kid.

“I have a lot of allergies. Seafood. Anything in the ocean will kill me. Peanuts—you name it. So, I tried to make what I could eat really, really good. I’m a killer with rice and chicken breast too.

“It’s the same with you and interviewing. The first time is never going to be great. But do it enough, and you’ll get good at it, maybe even love it.”

Fiona broke eye contact and fumbled for a glass of water, her heart thumping harder than it should have. She only managed to drop the plastic tumbler into the sink and make a mess of her dress.

But Maurice had already moved on.

“You like podcasts, right? We’re going to listen to This American Life . It’s a mysterious one, but what I want you to focus on is the way Ira Glass asks questions.”

He played the podcast, and they sat together on the couch. “See, you don’t have to be antagonistic and confrontational. You can be curious and thoughtful and still get a ton of info. That’s what you’re aiming for. You don’t have to be a bulldog to get answers.”

She lacked the sharp edges to make the cop confrontations she’d seen on TV look effective. She knew it and so did Maurice.

Maurice leaned back, his body loose, at ease, while hers was coiled tight, her hands fidgeting with the corner of the couch pillow. They listened for half an hour as the rhythmic cadence of the narrator’s voice filled the room.

Fiona tried to focus, but her thoughts kept drifting to how late it was and the faint scent of coffee and butter clinging to Maurice’s skin.

She didn’t care if he made up an excuse to come by.

Only that he wanted to come and did. This was such a cliché.

God, I’m such a cliché. Of course I want whatever this is.

Then she felt it—his head tipping against her shoulder, the soft weight of him pressing into her, his breathing evening out. Maurice had fallen asleep.

Fiona held her breath. The nearness of him caught her completely off guard. She was afraid to move, to shift even slightly.

For a moment, Fiona allowed herself to feel close to someone. Maybe this whole endeavor would land her in jail. So she drank in the quiet intimacy of the moment, breathing as slowly as an Olympic runner while her heart jackhammered in her chest.

Maurice stirred, his breath catching before he jolted upright, blinking rapidly. His hand flew to her shoulder, brushing against it awkwardly as though to apologize. His eyes were wild for a moment, bewildered, then embarrassed. Maurice glanced at the clock on the wall and then back at Fiona.

“I’m sorry. I…I’m…I gotta head out.” He shot up too quickly, upsetting the plate of cold eggs balanced on his lap. It crashed to the floor, the ceramic splintering into shards.

“Oh shit.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it.” She got up to grab a dustpan. “Maurice. Maurice, wait.”

What do I say?

“I don’t want to be alone”?

“Sleep all you want”?

“The church family is out there, and they’re scaring me”?

He didn’t wait. He shoved his shoes on and pulled the door open. He looked like he was running for his life.

“Be ready tomorrow night. We’re going on stakeout number two. This time we’re following Mark.”

He left her shaking in the front room. She moved to the bedroom to shower and ready herself for bed.

After some time, she returned to the living room to dispose of the shards in a proper paper bag, but the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

A sound—soft, faint, like the scrape of a shoe against the carpet—came from the hallway.

Is Maurice still here? No, he would have been long gone by now. There was someone else out there, waiting, listening.

She stood slowly, her breath catching in her throat as she moved toward the door. She peered through the peephole, her heart stuttering at the sight of a figure lingering down the hall. They weren’t moving, just standing there, their face obscured by the shadowed hallway.

Just another hotel guest maybe, but something about the stillness of the figure, the way they seemed to be waiting, was making her sick with anxiety.

She crept away from the door just in time to see a tiny note slip underneath it. In red marker, she saw the word scribbled fast and mean:

Fornicator