Page 56 of The Princess and the P.I.

Three Hours Earlier

Since Esi’s visit, Maurice had been gathering and collecting evidence like a man gone mad.

The brown accordion folder was stuffed with dates, notes, timelines, receipts.

When he presented his case, a buttered noddle wouldn’t be able to slip out of this vise.

He needed just a few more I ’s dotted and T ’s crossed.

Dear god, he did it.

Today was the day of the press conference at the police department.

A full ten days since he’d gripped Fiona’s ass and bounced her on his lap in a shadowy velvet club.

Weeks since he’d coiled around her in those white cotton sheets as rested and peaceful as he’d ever been.

He blinked away the burning images. He was too far gone now, and he had to wrap this case up with a bow.

He had to link up with Farouq, one of the few policemen still loyal to him.

Maurice stood at the back of the room, black leather jacket unzipped to show the only tie he owned and a white button-down shirt.

His gaze swept over the boiling pot of reporters gathered for the press conference.

The murmurs of the crowd and clicking camera shutters produced an anticipatory air.

This place always smelled like cheap coffee and institutional bleach. He had once loved that smell.

His mind drifted, unbidden, to Tameka and what he now knew about her death.

Finding out the church’s exact role in Tameka’s death had cracked something inside him.

It wasn’t just the shock of the cover-up; it was the profound betrayal.

A community that was supposed to uplift and protect these women had hidden behind piety and turned on one of its own.

He wondered if Tameka had trusted them, right up until the moment they took her life.

He wouldn’t stop until that place was burned to the ground.

In the pit of his stomach, anger burned like acid. He thought of Amelia grieving, gullible. Giving all her money away for salvation. The church ate of grief and pain and engorged itself.

The police department had finally agreed to make a statement about the Thorpe murder case, and Maurice was surprised this was even happening. It meant someone on top wanted this case closed.

If Detective Ryan was tiring of this dance, he wasn’t showing it. As he stepped up to the podium, Maurice watched him. Handsome, assuring, soaking up the shutters and pops like a movie star. He knew this shit was cosplay. The public face of the investigation often hid progress or the lack thereof.

“We are pursuing all leads and have full confidence that we will bring the perpetrator to justice,” Ryan intoned.

“You made an arrest in early September. It’s now November. Can you give us an update?”

“The individual was apprehended based on substantial evidence gathered through ongoing investigative efforts. Due to the active nature of this case, we will not disclose specific charges or evidence at this time.”

A hedge , Maurice noted, and the reporters knew it. The room bristled, and voices overlapped with urgent follow-ups.

A reporter from the Washington Post leaned forward. “Detective Ryan, sources say there were inconsistencies in the arrest report. Care to comment?”

Ryan met her gaze steadily. “The investigation has remained within the parameters of the law. Any procedural questions will be addressed in court, at the time of pretrial.”

Another voice cut through the din. “Was the suspect connected to Thorpe’s tech empire or his personal life?”

Ryan let a calculated pause stretch.

“As I said, this is an active investigation involving complex, overlapping relationships in both professional and personal spheres. Our focus is uncovering the truth and holding those responsible accountable.”

Translation: a bunch of people wanted this man dead.

A younger reporter, new and overeager, blurted, “Is it true the arrest was rushed? Some say you feel political pressure for such a high-profile death.”

Ryan’s mouth moved in something resembling amusement, the closest thing to a smile he ever managed at these briefings.

“The Prince George’s County Police Department operates independently of outside political influence.” This was a joke everyone caught, and the soft chuckles rumbled around the room.

Slicker than a can of oil , Maurice noted. Confident but opaque, commanding but withholding. That’s what his friendship had been like too. He gave you nothing and made it feel like everything. Maurice slipped out of the room unnoticed.

Maurice leaned against the cracked linoleum counter at the police station, watching the desk sergeant aggressively ignore him.

Maurice straightened his jacket, tapping the desk for the fourth time.

“Farouq, then, where is he?” Maurice was running out of loyal cops.

“Got a promotion. Too good for us now. He has an office in the back.” He threw his hand back and Maurice slipped through the hallway to a tiny, converted closet.

“Detective Farouq, shiiit . Alpha Dog!” Maurice pulled at his lapels.

His friend rolled his eyes.

“Shut up, Bennett. Sit down.”

Farouq looked rough—dark circles under his eyes, hair scraped into a man bun like he was a very serious boy. He was thin in a hungry way—like he was missing some essential vitamin or mineral.

“Still helping that Midsommar -ass girl?” Farouq asked.

Maurice slid into the metal chair across from his desk—spinning like a child.

“Let me ask you a very serious question.”

“Shoot.” Farouq signed papers but didn’t look up.

“Sailor Moon or Goku?” Maurice asked.

“Are you serious?”

“Answer the question.”

“Sailor Moon’s cosmic powers are fucking limitless, bro. My ten-year-old sister knew this twenty years ago. Next question.”

“I’m surrounded by idiots.”

His voice stayed cool, casual. No point showing how much he needed this conversation.

“I need a shit list. A more concrete collection of folks who had it out for Robert. I know you all cast a wide net, and I don’t have resources for that. I’ve had to keep my investigation deep but pretty narrow.”

Farouq pulled a battered file folder from a stack that looked ready to collapse. “Some dead ends I need to file.”

“Anything with a hook in it?”

“You tell me,” Farouq said, flipping the file open. “Your boy was connected to some very interesting people. Private security firms, contractors—not the mall-cop type either. These sommabitches play war games for real.”

“Mercenaries.” Maurice’s voice flattened.

“Bingo.” He slid a series of grainy crime scene photos across the desk. “Three deaths in the last three years—all presumed carjackings. Neat, professional.”

Maurice’s eyes scanned the photos. They were staged like bad-crime-show stills—streets slick with rain, bodies dumped like afterthoughts. Two were in major cities, predictable and anonymous. But the third—

“This one.” He tapped the last photo—a remote highway somewhere in Utah. Rust-colored cliffs in the background. No streetlights, no cameras. Wrong place for a carjacking.

Farouq nodded grimly. “The local sheriff called it a robbery gone bad, but look at that place—the most exciting crime is stealing cattle. No carjackings, no gang activity reported—ever. Family swears it was a hit. Dad was an engineer with top-level security clearance. Worked with Thorpe’s company until he ‘retired’ under strange circumstances. ”

The air in Maurice’s lungs felt sharp, like breathing glass. “And the others?”

“Investor in Thorpe’s last venture—sued him for fraud but backed off after a very generous settlement. Then there’s Thorpe’s former head of development, some genius engineer. Signed a massive NDA when he quit. Carjacking six months later.”

He paused and took two long breaths.

Maurice knew who that brilliant engineer was.

Motive with a neon sign.

“People with very good reasons to see Thorpe dead,” Maurice muttered.

Farouq leaned back, folding his arms. “You’re not surprised.”

“No,” Maurice said, “Robert was a black hole. He sucked in everything—money, talent, loyalty—nothing but a plate of chicken bones left behind.”

He stared at the photos. Hating what he knew deep in his belly.

“These files official?” Maurice asked.

Farouq shrugged. “Let’s call them…unofficially available. For now.”

Maurice stood, slipping the files into his coat with practiced ease. “Thanks.”

“Bennett.” Farouq’s voice stopped him at the door. “Watch your back. Whoever’s cleaning house…they’re not done.”

He didn’t look back, just kept walking out of the precinct. Then his phone buzzed.

He almost ignored it—another lead, another complication—but something pricked at the base of his neck.

He pulled the phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the screen.

One single word.

His heart hit his ribs like it was trying to escape. That stupid word—soft, familiar, meant for private spaces, when his mouth was on her.

He’d told her, You say “princess,” and I’m there.

She’d nodded, then seeing it as a simple agreement. Like he wouldn’t rip the world apart if she needed him.

His hand shook just a little as he read the word again.

Princess.

He was already running.