Page 57 of The Princess and the P.I.

r/PrivateDicksandJanes

TUEMUCH: I asked this same thing and was downvoted

The boat lurched as it neared the dock, and Fiona had to think. She pressed her hands against the cold metal rail, and her breath came shallow and fast.

Helicopter blades thudded overhead, and she could see the flashing red-and-blue strobes bouncing off the water. In six days, she would be in front of the judge with not one but possibly two murders under her belt.

Her fingers dug into the icy rail.

This was it.

They would cuff her, drag her back into the lion’s den of the system. This time, it wouldn’t spit her back out.

But then him.

God, the relief—it nearly knocked the wind out of her.

Maurice.

Standing at the edge of the dock, looking only at her, his long jacket snapping like a banner in the wind.

He was slim and steady, his sharp face illuminated by the swirling lights.

He was surrounded by a crescent of black SUVs.

He looked like a lighthouse in leather. Her breath tore from her chest.

He came. He came for me.

The night was alive with chaos. Gray clouds churned over National Harbor, rolling in like a tide.

“Fiona!” His voice barely made it over the wind and distance.

Her eyes locked on to his, and all of it hit her at once—the way he had ruined her, the way he had been ruined by her in return.

You are costing me. I don’t want you on this investigation.

The boat groaned again, metal teeth grinding against the dock. The gangplank dropped with a resonant clank, connecting them by a thin bridge that felt dangerously fragile.

Fiona’s pulse thrummed against her throat, and her hair whipped wildly in every direction. She could barely think over the crashing of the waves, over the groan of the yacht’s ropes straining against the pier, over the drumbeat of her own fear.

Maurice moved toward her like the wind might take her first. His body cutting through the night. Why the heck did he look terrified?

Didn’t he know she had memorized every second of every night with him? Didn’t he know she had gone over every beautiful, hurtful thing he’d said again and again in the sleepless hours, burned herself on the memory of his hands, his mouth, his fury, his need?

Why was he so afraid?

Maurice reached her, his voice raw and ragged, his eyes wild. “Fiona, I’m sorry!” he shouted over the wind. He looked wrecked.

He kissed her, and it was a questioning thing. A soft sweet press of his mouth to hers.

A commotion two hundred yards away drew her gaze from Maurice.

David’s drenched, twisted form erupted from the water, dragged ashore by a cluster of police officers.

His soaked blazer hung like deadweight, his arms flailing like broken wings, slippery and desperate.

She heard his screaming in the high key of a falsetto.

“Maurice—I have evidence—I—”

“Wait.” He cut her off. His gaze flicked toward the upcoming officers.

She followed his line of sight. David stood, water streaming down his face in slow, seething rivulets. His expression raw with rage, his chest heaving as he wrenched free from the officers’ grasp.

He looked more like a vengeful spirit than a man.

Three officers followed, cuffs in their hands. They weren’t sure if they were dealing with a crime or a tantrum.

One of the cops—a thick-necked guy with smelly breath and veneers too bright for someone making a state salary—stepped closer, notebook in hand. His partner loomed just behind him, tall, balding, and spectacled.

“You wanna tell us why we got a call from the captain about a man overboard?” Veneers asked, putting his back to the wind. “How’d you end up in the water?”

David’s wet hair clung to his forehead in limp strings, making him look like something that had been dredged up from the bay.

“Oh my god, Officers, no! It was just…the wildest thing!” Fiona’s laugh sounded a little too loud, even over the howl of wind, but she pressed on, spinning the tale with all the innocence she could muster.

“I was going to ask you about your shoes. We were too close to the railing. I popped up at the worst time and tipped him off-balance!”

For a breathless second, Fiona thought he might dispute her. Tell the officers that she had indeed tried to kill him.

But instead, he smiled. “We were wrapped up so tight. You know how it goes, Officers.”

The taller cop exchanged a skeptical glance with Veneers but didn’t press further.

“Captain mentioned some screaming,” the taller one said, his tone probing. “You sure this wasn’t a fight?”

“Oh, no!” Fiona exclaimed, her hands fluttering as though the idea were absurd. “Brother David is such a lamb.” Her pulse thudded in her throat, her eyes darting to Maurice, who watched her with an inscrutable face.

David pushed a wet ringlet out of his face.

But the wind plopped it right back down.

“Why would the railing be so low?” he ranted.

“Where was the signage? Do you know how much I paid just to be knocked over the side? My lawyers will love this.” He turned to the cops.

“But the worst part was my poor fiancée here.” He gestured lazily at Fiona. “Terrified.”

Maurice stiffened at the word fiancée , and David smiled.

“Oh, this is all very fresh,” David continued, voice syrupy and mocking. He turned to the cops, shrugging like this was all beneath him. “Look, I’m cold, wet, and ready to file a lawsuit. Is there anything else?”

The officers hesitated, but Veneers finally sighed, handing over a statement form. “Just sign this, and we’ll wrap it up.”

David scrawled his name with exaggerated annoyance on the flapping papers, then leaned in close to Fiona, his damp presence oppressive. “Shall we?” he said. “Apologies, Maurice. I have to get Fiona home.”

“I am home, David,” she said.

“Fiona, don’t be—”

“I’m not being anything, David. I’m not your fiancée. Thank you for the dinner but—”

David’s eyes snapped between them.

“I’ll take you back to your father.” His hand gripped her arm just a little too firmly as he started to steer her away.

Maurice took one slow, calculated step forward, shifting his coat just enough for the dull, unmistakable glint of a holstered gun to catch the dock’s flickering floodlights. His voice came low and lethal.

“Brown Joel Osteen’s getting handsy…I can get real handsy too, lil moe,” he drawled, his eyes never leaving David’s. “Back the fuck up.”

The air cracked like a whip. David halted, then slowly backed down, smoothing his drenched blazer with trembling hands. His eyes flicked to Fiona one last time, dark with a flash of disgust.

“No weapons formed against me…Fiona, your father will be hearing from me,” he hissed through clenched teeth, holding up a dripping finger like he was delivering a sermon. He turned away from them, and his soaked shoes slapped wetly against the dock as he melted into the dark.

She had so much to tell him.

“Maurice—”

But his sharp look stopped her short. The faint glow of the dock lights cast hollows beneath his high cheekbones.

“Fiona, promise me no matter what you hear tonight…Remember, it was all real. We were so real,” he said.

“Maurice. You’re scaring me.” They still were real. What could she hear that would make her feel any other way?

“I don’t mean to, but we need to find your father and sister. They may be in danger, Fiona.” He spoke her name with the kind of finality that brooked no questions.

“I know who killed Robert Thorpe.”