Page 23 of Artifice (Pros and Cons Mysteries #4)

O live maintained a careful distance as Principal Denarau’s sleek Audi wound through the narrow streets of Edgewood.

Dinner had been pleasant enough, filled with charming anecdotes and passionate speeches about Lighthouse Harbor’s noble mission.

But something about his polished veneer felt too practiced.

Now, as his taillights disappeared around a bend, she slowed her rental car, maintaining the gap between them.

The road had narrowed, transitioning from quaint coastal town to industrial zone at the harbor’s edge. Weathered warehouses loomed like ancient sentinels against the night sky, their corrugated metal skins glinting dully in the sparse streetlights.

Principal Denarau’s car slowed, then turned into a gravel lot beside the largest warehouse—a hulking structure with broken windows along its upper level.

Instead of pulling directly in, he continued another hundred yards before parking in the shadows beneath a derelict loading dock.

“What are you doing here, Principal?” Olive murmured, killing her headlights and coasting to a stop well before the turn.

She pulled to the shoulder, positioning her car behind an abandoned fishing boat on a rusted trailer. Grabbing her gun, she tucked it into a hidden holster on her thigh—just in case. Then she slid the strap of her purse across her body.

She slipped from her vehicle, noting how the air carried the metallic tang of saltwater mixed with diesel. The elegant dress and heels she’d worn to dinner weren’t ideal for surveillance, but they’d have to do.

She moved carefully along the edge of the road, keeping to the deeper shadows.

A chain-link fence topped with rusted barbed wire surrounded the warehouse property. A sign hung crookedly from the gate: “NORTHEASTERN SHIPPING — PRIVATE PROPERTY.” The lock on the gate looked new—incongruously shiny against the weathered fence.

Olive scanned for security cameras but saw none. There was a gap in the fence about fifty yards from the main entrance where the metal had been pulled away from a post. She approached it cautiously, wincing as her heels sank into the soft earth.

This would be so much easier in my regular clothes .

Grimacing, she slipped off her shoes and held them by the straps. The cold ground sent a shock through her bare feet, but it was better than announcing her presence with every step.

She squeezed through the fence gap, feeling the rough metal catch at her dress. She paused to listen.

Nothing but the distant lapping of waves and the occasional cry of a night bird.

Ahead, a faint light spilled from one of the warehouse’s side doors.

Moving from shadow to shadow, Olive worked her way closer.

Principal Denarau emerged from the darkness, no longer in his dinner jacket. Instead, he wore what appeared to be a weatherproof coat. He talked on his phone, his voice too low to make out the words.

He glanced around once before slipping through the side door. It closed with a metallic clang that echoed across the empty lot.

Olive had a decision to make.

Follow him? Or call backup and wait for Tevin?

Olive counted to thirty before advancing.

The warehouse’s shadow swallowed her as she pressed against its corrugated wall, inching toward a window covered with grimy plastic sheeting. Some sharp edges protruded from the broken panes—which explained the sheeting.

A tear in the plastic offered a narrow view inside.

The warehouse’s interior was mostly dark, except for a pool of harsh light from industrial fixtures hanging over what appeared to be a makeshift meeting area. Crates had been arranged in a rough circle, and Principal Denarau stood with his back to her, facing a figure just at the edge of the light.

The second man stepped forward, and Olive’s pulse quickened.

It was Mr. Thorne, the groundskeeper from Lighthouse Harbor. His weathered face was now hard and businesslike.

They were having what appeared to be a heated discussion. Principal Denarau gesturing emphatically while Mr. Thorne repeatedly shook his head.

Olive strained to hear, catching only fragments: “. . . cannot continue . . .” and “. . . becoming too visible . . .” followed by a sharp “. . . the investors expect results . . .”

The men moved deeper into the warehouse, partially obscured by stacked shipping containers.

Olive shifted position, edging around the corner to find another vantage point.

She spotted another window, this one lower to the ground and missing its plastic covering entirely.

She had to find out more. It was a risk, but it was a risk she needed to take.

Olive crouched and moved toward the window, careful to stay in the deeper shadows.

Inside, the men had unfurled what looked like blueprints across a makeshift table. Principal Denarau pointed to various sections while Mr. Thorne took notes.

Just then, Olive heard a swishing sound behind her.

Before she could turn, a hand clamped over her mouth from behind, stifling her instinctive scream.

An arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her backward against a solid form.

She’d allowed herself to become too distracted by the scene inside. She hadn’t been as alert as she should have been.

“Don’t make a sound,” a voice whispered against her ear.

Then he dragged her away from the window.