Page 5 of The Princess and the P.I.

The TechXpo scene was a mess, a chaotic tangle of bodies and motion. Robert Thorpe’s body lay crumpled on the floor, lifeless. The Bulldog of Southeast, reduced to this: slack limbs, empty eyes, a tie limp around his neck. Just an hour ago, he’d hugged Robert—a warm, living body.

Damn.

Maurice’s hands shook. The . Robert. Thorpe. The Bulldog. Gone.

Damn.

Damn.

It pinned him to the floor. Where had this woman even come from? The glittery bodice of her dress refracted the light like a disco ball.

He couldn’t seem to get away from her eyes—they were like some MFA student’s final project on translucent sketch paper.

Startled Eyes No. 3 in graphite.

The scene set his instincts off. The woman was clearly stunned, mouthing something as accusations shot through her like bullets. She’d tried to steal the vest—fine, sure. But why? The question lodged in his chest like shrapnel.

And then his gut twisted.

This damned church.

Of course, Kofi Addai was nowhere to be found, always slipping away when things got messy, leaving others to bear the weight. This so-called church specialized in coercion, blackmail, and extortion.

Something about this wasn’t right.

He had put her up to this; Maurice would’ve bet his next paycheck on it. And now she was left alone to take the fall.

In the crowd, the accusations spread like wildfire.

Security cuffed her wrists with a brutal efficiency, her body slumping weakly under their grip. She was so compliant. Maurice’s throat tightened.

Fight, girl. He wanted to yell it, to reach out, but his words stuck. I know they messed you up in that cult, twisted your thinking. They won’t come for you. They won’t protect you.

They dragged her off, her feet stumbling, her glittery dress catching on the air like it was trying to hold her back. Maurice’s whole body screamed for him to move, to do something, but all he could do was watch. Why was no one else seeing how wrong this was? How fast and silly and sloppy?

His feet started moving without him realizing, taking him closer to where Robert had fallen. There was a pull in his chest he couldn’t shake.

The crowd began to disperse, their anger cooling now that they’d seen blood—well, metaphorically. The sight of the woman in cuffs was enough to sate them. Maurice glanced back at them, then forward again, scanning the floor, scanning the air, scanning for something.

And there she was. Tameka.

Shit. Not now.

Wide-eyed, her skin still puffy, that awful gray brown that had haunted him for months. She was there, not really there but still there. Prodding him along with that look she used to give, that do something look.

“Get in your car, Maurice. I know you got the tingles up your skinny little legs. Follow that police van.”

He blinked hard, hoping she’d vanish like she usually did. But no, Tameka was in fine form tonight, fully animated and fully unimpressed.

“I know you hear me. Get. In. Your. Car. Or you just gonna let that church swallow up another victim? Typical.”

“Tameka. Not today.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Not today? Oh, you get days off? Justice is a Chick-fil-A?”

“I don’t even think I saw Kofi…I just.”

“Who cares if it was real or fake? It was your gut. Answer it.”

Maurice found himself pressing the ignition, the police van in his sights. Tameka always got what she wanted. Even dead.

—

The front desk of the police station was manned by a weary-looking officer, his uniform as tired as the surroundings. Behind him, a bulletin board overflowed with notices, flyers, and outdated wanted posters. A particular poster, Ryan for Sheriff , made his stomach turn.

The police station’s once-white paint was peeling and faded, revealing patches of gray concrete beneath.

Maurice walked in but kept to the corners.

The musty odor of a basement mixed with the scent of stale coffee assaulted the senses.

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered intermittently, casting a harsh, unflattering glow over the interior.

The waiting area was sparsely populated by a handful of despondent individuals, resignation and fatigue pulling their faces down and their shoulders up.

Maurice came out from the shadows, letting them all see where the voice was coming from. “What are we doing with that woman?” he asked.

“Who is… we ?” Maurice knew that voice. “You keep forgetting you’re not on the force.

” The blood drained from his face. He could feel Detective Tony Ryan’s beady eyes burning into the back of his head.

Maurice was used to the little laughs and glances the cops shared when he walked in.

He was a punch line to them, especially Ryan.

“Maurice, still catching people cheating at the Golden Corral?” Ryan quipped. Maurice didn’t have to face him to know a stupid smirk slid across his face. An audience of junior officers looked between them both, desperate for some show.

“Hey, Bennett, I’m just messing with you.

We love seeing this pretty motherfucker, don’t we?

” He leaned against the grimy wall. Maurice appreciated this for the insult it was.

Men assumed a softness in him that he had long since stopped raging against. Any good private detective needs to be nondescript.

Maurice had cut off his locs and quelled his urge to get a face tattoo.

He was an indistinguishable five eleven, and his coloring was the cardboard brown of half the population of Prince George’s County.

His goal was to look like someone in line at the CVS.

And he mostly succeeded, until he ran into the occasional person who had a thing for dimples and lashes.

He was never as rugged as his clients expected him to be, and it was bad for business.

People wanted a detective with a glass eye or an off-color scar across his face.

They needed to see a man who had taken on mobsters with switchblades and come out the other side.

All of his demons were internal.

“Aye, I heard you’re about to get the podcast treatment.” Ryan started laughing. “Reporters and civilians poring over that case, picking through all your mistakes with that cult…” He shuddered. “Couldn’t be me.”

Maurice offered a noncommittal shrug. His chest burned, but he tried to keep his humiliation unreadable.

Back in their days at the police academy, he and Tony Ryan had been inseparable—two young Black men who had bought into the community policing recruitment propaganda and thought they could make a difference by wearing the badge with a new meaning.

He held a quilting workshop at the precinct, and Ryan grilled hot dogs.

They would be the cops you call who didn’t escalate, and who did the cupid shuffle at those community cookouts that go viral.

They pushed each other to the top. Ryan’s gregarious bravado complemented Maurice’s more quiet, analytical approach. They were a team, or so Maurice had thought.

Ryan switched up on him; they were both up for a prestigious detail with the Alpha Dogs (AD) detective unit.

It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime details that could fast-track their careers.

What was fucked up about it was that Tony Ryan had been the favorite anyway, but he didn’t want to leave shit to chance.

When they first joined the force, Maurice, with Ryan’s encouragement, had anonymously blown the whistle on an old cop who had fudged a domestic violence report.

When the time came to choose who would get the AD unit assignment, somehow it got out that Maurice was the rat.

Overnight, the brotherhood Maurice had finally felt was replaced by isolation.

Ryan rocketed to the top of the ladder and took the sole spot with the elite AD unit.

Detective Ryan chose his own ambitions over Maurice. Over fourteen years of friendship.

Maurice knew when to cut and run. The environment had turned hostile fast, so he turned in his badge and stepped away from the force and into the uncertain world of private investigation.

Now, years later, standing in the same precinct where his friends had turned enemies, Maurice fought the urge to pick at his nails or make busy with a nonexistent nit in his sweater.

“That woman you arrested…do you know who she is?”

“Oh no…don’t you go anywhere near our suspect. This case is open and shut.”

Pastor Kofi Addai’s words droned in his head. No one in this church will give you what you want.

Maurice leaned over the desk. “You don’t want the Bulldog of the Southeast’s murder on your hands, especially when you’re running for sheriff.”

“Why don’t you stop pretending that you know me or know anything about being a cop. If you don’t have any more business here—”

“Oh, but I do.” Maurice pulled out his wallet, surprising himself. “I’m bailing that woman out.”