Page 29 of The Princess and the P.I.

r/PrivateDicksandJanes

MorenaFuerte: Because it’s a cliché???

Princess_PI: What’s so interesting about the spouse?

Maurice silently clicked open the door to Fiona’s suite, slipping inside with a contented sigh. Midnight. Again. He was coming earlier, staying later. Each night he told himself he’d leave at a reasonable hour, but reasonable had lost its shape.

The inevitable creep of familiarity had turned this place into some kind of battery pack, or at least a recalibration.

It was working. Whatever this was. His other cases were clearing faster than ever, wiped off the docket like magic.

His bookkeeping—his actual bookkeeping—was up to date.

Hell, he even returned a library book before the due date.

He couldn’t explain it, didn’t want to question it.

But here, in this room, in her space, things felt aligned.

Like he had found some quiet video game cheat code for making his life function better, spam the Fiona button.

And he wouldn’t let Tameka back here. Not into this bed, not into this suite, not into the space where his ribs loosened enough to let breath in without thinking.

He hadn’t known he had that kind of control, that he could decide when and where the past trespassed.

But the first time he saw her, saw that awful specter of guilt lingering in Fiona’s sheets, something inside him recoiled with a violent hell no , not here.

Not her . Some primal boundary drawn from the depths of the earth, or maybe just the pit of his stomach.

He’d spent so long carrying ghosts that it never occurred to him that he could simply refuse them entry.

He peeled off his shirt, then his pants, dropping them in the quiet heap they always made on the chair.

Fiona stirred, a slow shifting beneath the covers, and he held still for a second, watching.

When he finally slid underneath the warm covers, the bed was cool where she hadn’t touched, hot where she had.

She stirred again, this time turning into him, sighing into his chest like she had been waiting for him in her sleep.

He draped an arm over her, and she folded into the space beneath it like she belonged there. Like he belonged here .

This shit felt like Tetris.

Squeeze her.

Press her open.

Burn inside of her.

The devils on his shoulders were working overtime.

So what if her father was the head of a church that acted more like a cartel?

So what if she was going to do a bid for grand larceny, guaranteed?

He could slip inside of her so smooth, no splash, like an Olympic diver.

He could coax her awake with soft, flat stokes of his tongue, circling her clit until her body arched into him, half asleep, but fully his.

He knew he could rewire her brain with his mouth alone. No sermon, no psalm—just Maurice.

He breathed into the slope of her soft shoulder and groaned in real physical pain.

Don’t you do it, Maurice. Don’t you pull yourself off next to her.

He put his hands behind his head to fight that urge. God, but these nights could be their hot, sweet little secret.

She had caught him red-handed staring at her bounce into that jumpsuit in the backseat of his Mercedes.

She had to know he was rock-hard in that front seat, willing his dick to show some level of chill.

She had the kind of body ancient folk would pray to for a bountiful harvest or more sons.

He would worship her too if she let him.

His eyes were getting heavy even as he thought this. His mind racing with filthy thoughts but his body calling bullshit and simply snatching this rare opportunity to rest.

That night, he dreamt of drowning.

—

Six days later and Fiona was ready to turn herself in to the authorities.

Nobody told her detective work would be so boring.

Maurice had hit paydirt with the trash he stole.

They had weeks of Mark’s schedule printed out and color-coded in pastels.

Mark had sales meetings planned all over the city and some in other states.

His schedule showed a man focused on one thing. Making sure the sale went through.

Maurice got payment receipts and accounting emails. He was grinning like that damned cat from Alice in Wonderland when he sifted through some of the paperwork.

Fiona, on the other hand, had failed miserably, and for five days she’d been in Maurice Jail of Paperwork and Office Cleanup.

She had been so proud of herself.

She had run to her bag to give him the golden external drive. I think I shot finger guns at him. Why?

“We’re going to crack this case wide open.” Fiona played the evening back in her head over and over.

He inserted the drive and clicked on the file. Sixty videos with alphanumeric titles and dates.

“It’s a personal cloud,” Maurice said. “This baby uploads automatically.” He rubbed his palms together greedily. Fiona, too, felt that this may be something momentous.

He clicked on the first video.

A couple vigorously…um, doing it.

“Oh my goodness.” Fiona looked, turned away, and then looked again.

“Whoa.” Maurice closed the video and then clicked on the next one, dated a week later. A man dressed like a clown in a black velvet room vigorously…doing it.

And another one, one week after that—a woman in a mask in a room draped in black velvet vigor—

“Okay, okay,” Fiona said.

“Yeah…it looks like you risked it all for Robert’s spank bank.” He couldn’t hide his tick of disappointment. She’d wasted valuable time going after something useless.

He was different since she bombed their undercover mission. He spoke slower and explained things two or three times.

Does he regret bailing me out? The anxiety about underperforming mixed with the mind-numbing sorting of trash was a dizzying combination.

Fiona had envisioned her first foray into detective work as a bit sexier than this—mysterious clients, shadowy alleyways, and shady perps.

Instead, she was hours deep into a seemingly endless database, her vision blurred from staring intently at the screen.

Every email was useless, and she sighed with each click.

She’d sorted every message according to who sent it on one spreadsheet and then what they received on another.

She had columns from Robert Thorpe, Mark, Sara, and the wife.

Who had the smallest number? She’d inputted dates for the past ninety days in the rows.

“Is this all we’re going to do today?”

“And all of tomorrow,” he said. Maurice didn’t look up from the screen. His coffee was cold, but he sipped it anyway. He didn’t add any cream or sugar, nor did he hop up every fifteen minutes to put it back in the microwave like Fiona did.

The buzzer rang and Maurice checked the video.

“It’s Amelia,” he said. Fiona bolted upright, spinning in tight circles searching for an escape route.

Maurice stepped forward, his hands firm and steady as they guided her into the closet, gripping her hips and back to nudge her inside.

Through the slits in the closet door, Fiona’s view of the room looked framed by prison bars.

Amelia Thorpe swept into the office with gospel blaring on her phone.

She had sensible clipped nails, and her hair was coming in gray and brown at the roots.

This Amelia was not the woman Fiona had encountered before.

Gone was the glinting edge of superiority and the designer armor.

Now she was swathed in a flowing white dress.

A golden cross hung at her throat, and her hands clutched a well-worn Bible.

“Bennett, we need to talk,” Amelia said, each word an order.

“Of course, Mrs.Thorpe. What seems to be the problem?” Maurice asked. His tone was so flat he sounded nearly dead. Fiona saw him deploy this tone when his clients were agitated. Everything he did was about controlling his environment.

Amelia paced the room, her high heels clicking rhythmically against the floor. “I’ve reconnected with God,” she announced, her voice trembling with the kind of fervor Fiona recognized.

Maurice didn’t even blink. “You mean to tell me God was in Prince George’s County this whole time?” he asked lightly. “Eating blue crab with Old Bay?” Maurice was asking the wrong questions. That much was obvious. He was letting his disdain for the church zap away his curiosity.

Fiona stood still, barely breathing. How did they find Amelia? They didn’t choose people at random. They only came when they smelled something valuable. And if they had their hooks in Amelia, it meant someone had said too much.

A slip of the tongue. A stray comment in the wrong ear about how much money she had.

It was never a coincidence that the church launched its biggest membership drive right before the Bountiful Harvest Tithing Festival. That timing was always strategic. Always hungry.

How much money is Amelia expecting?

And how much of it had already been promised to the church?

Amelia stepped forward and placed a glossy pamphlet on Maurice’s desk. He picked it up with exaggerated care. He read aloud, for Fiona’s benefit, she was sure: “Do you want to be a part of the Apostolic Bountiful Blessing Exalting Yahweh?

“Ah,” Maurice said, turning the pamphlet over in his hands. “I think I know how this goes. You empty your bank account, they show you the truth.”

Amelia’s face cracked just slightly. “I’ve made contributions,” she admitted.

“How much?” Maurice asked, his tone quiet but sharp. “How much, Amelia?”

“I came here to forgive Sara,” Amelia said. “Grief clouds judgment. It makes us see villains where there are none. Sara didn’t kill Robert. She was a victim of his manipulation, like everyone else, just like all of us. The world manipulates and sours our vision.”

Fiona could have recited this phrase with her word for word. Poor woman, she was desperate for wholeness and had found it in the ABBEY.

She needed to know that place only took. It never gave.

She wished she was mic’ed up right now. Whispering in Maurice’s ear. She knew exactly what to say to Amelia, flush with the possibilities of never-ending love, of community and acceptance.

“Let me get this straight,” Maurice said finally. “You’re here to forgive Sara? To absolve her of…what, exactly? Being there when your husband died?”

Amelia’s jaw clenched, but she quickly composed herself. “I’m asking you to drop this case. Let it go. Let Robert rest in peace.”

“If I don’t…”

“Well, it goes without saying I’m no longer paying you, but my church is pretty well resourced and it’s probably a bad idea to upset one of its members.”

Fiona took her meaning and knew it to be true. They would do anything to protect their members. Even if an acolyte murdered a young girl.

Now Tameka haunted her .

“So, it no longer bothers you that Sara slept with your husband? Or that Robert employed me to find you in a compromising position so he could leave you with nothing?” She knew what he was doing, waiting for a flicker of disgust or a microburst of rage to cross her face.

But it was as flat and serene as a frozen lake.

But Maurice couldn’t stop. “Mark thinks you and Sara planned this together. He says you’re the one who sent Sara to Robert, knowing exactly how it would end.”

Fiona bit her cheek in the closet. He was giving away too much. He couldn’t be objective when it came to that church.

“Mark also said you are compromising his sales meetings. He’s only pushing through what Robert would have wanted.”

A lie, Fiona realized.

She would be thrown in jail if she burst out of this closet right now, but she wanted to jump out and drag Maurice in.

Amelia’s laughter was brittle and a little put on. “Mark is loud and paranoid. I need the company to sell as much as he does. I don’t put too much stock in the ravings of a cokehead drunk. Or is this some kind of drug addicts’ solidarity?”

Maurice’s laugh felt genuine. “That’s the same thing they told the police. They are feeding you lines word for word.” He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle. “Tell you what, I’m a little disappointed. I would have preferred it if you were smart enough to work with Sara’s scheming ass.”

“She must be quite good. She always seems to slip right out of your hands.”

How could she know that? Fiona grasped the doorknob.

“I’m going to find Sara and break her,” Maurice said. Fiona’s shoulders dropped. This man’s ego would get him killed.

“You’re suddenly very cocky.”

“Born this way, actually.” Maurice batted his eyelashes, and it felt more sinister than playful.

Amelia smoothed her dress. “I’ve said what I came to say,” she said. She turned to leave but paused at the door.

“You should…take this offer to drop this case. I would hate for you to meet the Lord before you’re even saved.”