Page 61 of The Princess and the P.I.

What did he make of this pitiful little family, twisted into knots by secrets and grief?

And what did he make of her, for not seeing what was right in front of her face?

She recalled the sharp questions he’d asked earlier, how he’d believed she knew more than she did.

He always gave her too much credit, too much agency.

The truth was that she had never once suspected her own father.

Maurice’s voice broke through again. “I want to pull at this thread. How exactly had Sara become involved?”

How could he sound so calm, so focused, amid this unraveling?

Her father met Maurice’s gaze, resigned.

“The plan was Sara’s.” He nodded toward the holstered gun at Maurice’s waist. “I’m an old-fashioned man, Mr.Bennett.

I walked into Robert’s office ready to face him.

To end him.” His fingers curled as if they still gripped a phantom weapon.

“But when the chair whirled around, Robert wasn’t there.

It was Sara.” His voice softened. “And she didn’t even flinch.

“She told me how many drugs he was on, how despicable he was, and she told me I could make amends to Kwesi and to her. You see, I was the leader of the church when so much abuse took place. Tameka happened under my watch. Robert had her trapped, and she told me I owed her that freedom, and I supposed I did.”

Her dad was squeezing his hands so tight.

“I didn’t know how long I had, and I had to try.

I had to try for him.” His voice shook, and for the first time, Fiona saw his sad fragility and the sickening loss of his son plain on his face.

“How was I to know my own daughter would be pressing that button?” He swayed, and for a second, she thought he might faint.

“Dad,” Fiona whispered, laying her head against his chest. His arms circled her, covering her face with his hands.

Her father’s gaze steadied. “I made my peace with God, child. Do what you must, but all is well with my soul.”

Fiona felt cut open all over again even as understanding wove like a tender vine around her heart. He was more like her than she thought. They were both acting out of a place of unbearable loss and helplessness.

How had Fiona not seen the depth of her father’s suffering?

How could she mistake his quiet for resilience rather than a silent scream?

She’d walked through that house, fuming, believing she was the only one who had truly lost someone that day.

The aggressive numbness her family showed had felt like betrayal—proof they hadn’t cared enough.

But now she saw it. Her father’s grief was vast and devouring, something he’d kept locked away to rot inside him.

Fiona looked up at Maurice, and his face roiled with conflicting emotions.

She had seen him note every detail, something she had stopped doing forty-five minutes ago.

There was no love lost between Maurice and her father, but she could see him wrestling with his words, eschewing his nonchalance for something deeper.

“That’s the man you’ve always been, Kofi,” Maurice said quietly, surprising Fiona with the gentle respect in his voice. “A lion, protecting your children, no matter the cost.”

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck like the air had grown too hot, then straightened his shoulders, gaze locking onto Kofi’s. “And I swear…I won’t let a single hair on your daughter’s head be harmed.”

Kofi studied him, eyes narrowing in thought. “For how long?”

“Ever,” Maurice said, the word, fast and final, dropped like a gavel. Fiona felt a ripple of heat spread through her chest at the sheer conviction in his voice.

And then he turned that fierce look on Fiona—just for her.

Kofi let out a low chuckle, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Be careful, eh? My daughter will overrun you if you’re not paying attention. When she’s hungry, she’ll convince you to cook for the children.” He shook his head.

She exchanged a glance with Maurice, who, by the confused look on his face, had not understood her father’s advice at all. There was so much more to say. The moment had changed them all.

Fiona had fallen out of a tree once when she was a kid visiting Ghana, landing flat on her back in the red dirt. For a moment, she’d thought she was dying—the air stolen from her lungs, the world spinning around her in dizzy, disorienting loops.

That’s what this felt like now. She didn’t know how to navigate this seismic shift in her family. Her dad’s confession fractured her perception of him, adding layers to what had been a flat caricature of a man.

Maurice stood to leave the living area and walked them downstairs to the basement apartment, assuming correctly that they needed privacy but still unwilling to let them leave his apartment.

Behind them, the TV crackled, and a breaking news banner slashed across the screen in urgent red. None of them turned. They didn’t see Detective Ryan’s face, tight with controlled fury, as he stepped up to the podium, the microphones bristling like loaded weapons.

“In the matter of the murder of Sara Al Haddad,” he said, “we’ve identified one key person of interest.”