Page 8 of The Princess and the P.I.

Maurice’s headlights cut through the thick fog of the late evening as he pulled up to the Apostolic Bountiful Blessing Exalting Yahweh compound.

The neighborhood was eerily quiet for Riverdale Park, a sleepy neighborhood with a Whole Foods and retired University of Maryland professors walking their arthritic dogs at all hours of the night.

As he stepped out of the car, the first thing he noticed was a towering, illuminated statue of Jesus.

The garish glow cast long, unsettling shadows across the houses.

He didn’t know how the neighbors got to sleep every night.

“This you?” Maurice asked.

She had the good sense to look sheepish. The yard was meticulously maintained, but there was an unnatural yellow patch where the shadow of Jesus fell.

“This is why Black people never make it to the end of scary movies,” Tameka said. “Look at this Amityville Horror –ass house.”

“I’m going to bring this church down,” Maurice mumbled under his breath.

“I don’t like it in there. I don’t like them.”

Before he could respond, the front door swung open, and Kofi Addai was there, pulling Fiona inside without a word.

Maurice turned, half expecting to see Tameka follow him in. But no. She stayed outside, flipping him off with a grin before vanishing into the fog.

“Dad,” Fiona said, light, almost girlish. “I thought you’d be at the precinct.”

Maurice blinked at the change in her tone.

The sharp, calculating woman he had bailed out an hour ago was gone, replaced by something softer, smaller.

Her shoulders hunched in a way that made her seem diminutive, her voice pitched high like she was auditioning to be the sweet one in a Jackson 5 reunion special.

Her father met her gaze with calm, glazed-over eyes. “I have been in intense prayer, Fiona,” he said softly. “And see, you have returned to me. The Lord has brought you back, just as I knew He would.”

Maurice leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. Oh, this is some Jim Jones–type shit.

A low chuckle echoed from the hallway behind Kofi.

Maurice’s eyes snapped toward the sound, muscles tensing instinctively.

A man emerged from the shadows slow and thick like a snail trail.

His slicked-back hair gleamed like it had been polished to a shine, and his sharp features hinted at some ambiguous blend—Latino, biracial, Iranian maybe. A chameleon in any room.

“Forgive my brusqueness, but Kofi and I haven’t finished conversing,” the man drawled, his accent faint and slippery. He held out his hand. “David.”

Maurice didn’t take it.

David smiled wider, stretching his mustache wide across his face. His dark eyes flicked to Fiona, lingering just a beat too long, hot and hungry.

Not my business , Maurice reminded himself. Not my damned business that Dominican Papi Youth Pastor wants a bite.

Kofi cleared his throat, irritation flickering across his face, though it was gone almost instantly. “Mr.Bennett, this is Brother David, an adviser and loyal servant of the Lord.”

Kofi’s gaze snapped to Maurice. “If you drove her, send me the bill,” he said, dismissive.

Maurice snorted. “Yeah, I drove her, and bailed her out too. That amounts to a whole hell of a lot more than gas money.”

“I—” Kofi started.

David cut him off, gripping his arm in a way that looked uncomfortable. “The church is…invested in your family’s well-being, Father Addai, and we can assure you, getting Fiona free of these charges is our number one priority.”

Maurice didn’t like how he said it, like he’d already claimed something.

“You seem real invested,” Maurice said, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a dangerous purr.

“As I said,” Kofi replied smoothly, pulling his arm away from David. “I was praying fervently for her return.”

Maurice cocked an eyebrow. David and Papa Kofi aren’t as cozy as David thinks. “Thoughts and prayers ain’t gonna help Fiona drop two felonies, boys. A lawyer might, though.”

“I can assure you we are not your boys and—”

David cut Kofi off again. “The Lord sees all things, Mr.Bennett. If Fiona’s path leads her to the wilderness, then that is where she must go. Prayer is not a lack of action; it is the only action I take when the world encroaches on my church family.”

“David, respectfully—” Fiona began, but Kofi cut her off with a raised hand.

“Fiona,” he said. “When you walked out on that stage, you chose chaos over God’s ordered plan. Now you expect me to deliver you from your own iniquity? My first responsibility is to the Word of God.”

Maurice smirked. “Maybe. Or maybe you just don’t want the optics of the senior pastor bailing out his daughter.”

Kofi’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. “For the last time, I will not be giving you any details about this church, Mr.Bennett. And I know you bailed this foolish girl out just to get inside my house.”

Maurice shrugged, unbothered. “Money well spent.” And it was. He’d pay ten times as much for the access he had now. Fiona looked down at her hands, then up at Maurice.

Do you see what I have to deal with? Do you see why I want out? Her posture was bent low, deferential, like she’d been trained to submit. But her eyes—obsidian and unyielding—were defiant, burning.

She was livid, and her rage was impotent in this place.

The house itself was stark, devoid of warmth. The walls were sparse, decorated only with religious symbols and two words painted in block letters: Obedience and Sacrifice . Creeped Maurice right the fuck out.

Fiona’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I just wanted…to stop pretending like he was never here.”

Kofi stepped forward, but he did not move to comfort her. Maurice could watch their interaction for hours. She played her part well for these men. But the girl wasn’t broken. She was coiled. And Kofi, for all his piety, didn’t see how close she was to reckless danger.

David, that oily-ass man, wrapped his arms around Fiona, squeezing her upper arms in a way that seemed…anticipatory.

“It’s okay, dove,” he cooed. He wiped her face, but Fiona had no tears. “If you were married, the church would have a protocol for this behavior. You’re not under the right protection,” he said. He tilted her sideways like he wanted her to lean on him, but her posture was like steel.

Maurice and Kofi locked eyes for just a moment.

A surprise flash of agreement.

“Brother David.” Kofi’s voice was tight. “Why don’t we finish our conversation in the office?”

Brother David looked like he was ready to risk it all. He nodded. “Right, good point.”

David shuffled back into the dark hallway, and everyone seemed to sigh in relief.

Maurice didn’t blame Fiona for where she found herself.

It’s easier than you think to fall into a cult: Fine-ass girl takes you to “her church.” Charismatic guy with angel-wing hair tells you about a new freedom, and next thing you know, you’re high on molly, rubbing bodies in a ritual cleansing.

“Are you a man of faith, Mr.Bennett?” Kofi asked.

“I don’t have faith in people.”

“But I—”

“You’re a person,” Maurice interrupted, his tone final.

Kofi’s eyes narrowed, his smile tightening as he turned to Fiona, who looked a little triumphant.

Maurice leaned into the archway. “Do you have any other family, Mr.Addai?”

Kofi tilted his head, his gaze cold. “Family is a form of idolatry, don’t you think? People worship their favorite son or daughter as if they are the second coming of the Lord. My congregation is my family.”

The words seemed to land on Fiona like stones.

“I’ve never been anyone’s favorite,” Maurice said with a dry smile. “So, I’ve never had the pleasure. But any biological family?”

Kofi’s eyes raked over him, his smile tightening. “Let me guess,” he said slowly, savoring the moment. “No father? A child with three different women?”

The insult hung in the air between them, a challenge Maurice refused to acknowledge. Instead, he leaned back, calm and steady.

Maurice knew what some African and Caribbean parents spoke about over the dinner table.

They wanted the benefits of American Blackness but none of the stigma.

They wanted to say the N-word in rap songs but didn’t want to be followed around the grocery store.

The world wanted our rhythm but not our blues.

“Uh, he has no kids, Dad, and I have two siblings. Maurice, could we…” Fiona gestured to the table. She spoke like a person used to being cut off. Trailing off every other sentence.

Maurice turned around only to be face-to-face with white Jesus, a framed Kente, and a stained glass tableau of Lazarus rising. Underneath it was a line of scripture:

The wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who, by their unrighteousness, suppress the truth.

Romans 1:18

Okaaay…Maurice was no Bible scholar, but that verse really didn’t seem to fit the stained glass scene.

Maurice touched the decoration, its glossy surface cool against his fingertips, and both Fiona’s and her father’s necks stiffened like he’d just activated a bomb.

“Uh, Dad, can Maurice and I sit at the kitchen table…or?” Fiona’s voice broke the silence, overly casual, but there was an edge to it, like she was testing her father’s tolerance.

Can we? How old is this woman?

“Twenty minutes,” he said at last, his shoulders tight with disapproval, before disappearing down the hallway.

Maurice turned, his attention caught by movement from another hallway. A middle-aged Asian man bustled past.

Maurice was a man of few talents, none of them particularly useful in polite society—pickpocketing, quilting, a touch of low-level prestidigitation. A collection of skills that, if nothing else, ensured he’d never starve in a BBC period drama.