Page 3 of Artifice (Pros and Cons Mysteries #4)

FOUR DAYS EARLIER

O live gripped the steering wheel of her rental car as she stared at the Victorian mansion in front of her.

The building was located on a clifftop in Maine, and the Atlantic Ocean raged below. A white, weathered lighthouse rose in the distance.

The massive, wrought-iron gates at the front of the property gave it more the look of a haunted house than a home for troubled teens.

The house’s asymmetrical design, towering turrets, and shadowed windows spoke of untold secrets.

Tall trees that had probably been around for hundreds of years stood guard on the edges of the yard.

If only they could speak of the things they’d witnessed.

An old, rusted bike leaning against one of the stone columns did nothing to make the place look more welcoming, especially with its flat tire and bent rim.

Making matters worse was the fact that the day was rainy and overcast.

But Olive had come here with a job to do, and that was exactly what she planned on doing.

Right now, she wasn’t Olive Sterling. For this assignment she was Liv Bettencourt, the heir to the Bettencourt family estate. She was here to talk about investing in the programs and capital improvements at Lighthouse Harbor.

That was her cover story, at least.

In actuality, she was here to investigate.

Two weeks ago, fifteen-year-old Colin Andrews had disappeared from the facility. Administrators claimed he ran away, but his parents thought otherwise.

At least two other students had also vanished from this place in the past eighteen months. Each time, the school blamed the disappearances on them running away, which made the circumstances even more suspicious.

When Colin’s parents weren’t able to get answers from the school itself, they’d hired Aegis, the investigative firm employing Olive for the past three years.

Her job was to infiltrate the school and find out what had really happened to Colin.

Just from the looks of this building, Olive wouldn’t blame students if they did run away. She would be tempted to flee this place as well.

The building gave her bad vibes.

However, something much more sinister had happened to these students.

So far, no traces of them had been found.

She swallowed hard and pressed the call button on the gate’s intercom.

Her meeting with Director Margaret Ingraham started in five minutes.

Aegis had already established Olive’s faux background and personality by giving her several online mentions. They’d thought for this case it would be best if she came from old money.

Part of Olive’s job required her to have decent acting abilities.

It was the type of work where every day and every assignment was different, and those changes kept her on her toes.

Olive hadn’t minded the circumstances of her job. Not until recently.

In the past several months, new information about her past had come to light, and she desperately wanted time to investigate and dig deeper.

Especially when it came to Jason Stewart.

A knot formed in her throat at the thought of him.

When she thought about his family’s possible connection to everything that had happened with her own family.

Including their murders.

The lump in her throat grew larger.

“Can I help you?” A scratchy voice came through a small intercom beside her open car window.

It was showtime.

Olive made sure her voice sounded cultured and elegant as she said, “Good morning. I’m Liv Bettencourt, and I’m here for an eleven o’clock meeting with Director Ingraham.”

“Of course.” The woman’s voice turned gentler. “Come right on in, Ms. Bettencourt.”

A buzz sounded, and the gates slowly swung open. The creaking sound of disgruntled metal hinges caused a shiver to race down Olive’s spine.

She definitely didn’t like this place with its creepy vibes.

She pulled her car onto the property’s circular driveway and braked near the door.

The wind whipped across her as she stepped out.

She expected to see something on the grounds to indicate children lived here.

A swing set. Traces of sidewalk chalk. Sports equipment. Something .

But there was nothing. Not even a basketball court.

Only that old bike outside the gate, a bike that no doubt wasn’t supposed to be there.

The hair on her neck rose as she felt eyes on her.

Slowly, she turned and spotted the source of the feeling.

A tall, hunched man raked leaves across the lawn. He wore a dark raincoat, but parts of his face protruded—including his craggy nose.

His deep-set eyes stared at her without apology.

She repressed a shudder.

Her heels clicked on the pavement as she headed toward the door. Before she reached the porch, lightning illuminated the sky, and she flinched.

Was this God’s way of telling her that coming here was a bad idea?

Quite possibly.

Her only comfort right now was in knowing that her colleague, Tevin McIntyre, was in a van at the bottom of the hill. Normally, she used an earpiece so they could communicate.

This time, she didn’t. This initial meeting should be easy, nothing where she’d need backup.

Usually, needing backup would come later.

As she reached the massive, nine-foot-high double doors at the front of the building, they opened.

A woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun, waited for her. She wore all black, and her face was creased and serious.

Morticia Addams was Olive’s first thought.

This woman wasn’t the type of person people would want to cross, and most likely she knew that. Maybe she even delighted in the fact.

“You must be Liv Bettencourt.” The woman smiled with her lips but not her eyes. “It’s my pleasure to have you here with us today. I’m Margaret Ingraham.”

“I’m so glad I could come by, Director Ingraham. I’m very interested in the work you’re doing here. As I’m sure you know, my brother was in a similar program back in New York, and it changed his life.”

“Please, call me Margaret. And, yes, I’m very aware. I’m friends with Vivian, who owns the home where he was rehabilitated.”

Aegis had already set up Olive’s alibi there so if Margaret called them, they’d confirm Olive’s cover story.

Being thorough was the name of the game when it came to high-stakes investigations.

“So, welcome to Lighthouse Harbor.” Margaret closed the door, the sound echoing through the massive hallway in front of her. “Principal Denarau sends his regrets that he can’t be here right now. He’ll be in later in the week, however.”

“I understand.”

“Where would you like to start?”

Olive glanced at her surroundings.

Just like outside, the coldness of the place got to her. Where was the fun? The signs of life? The laughter?

As she soaked in the details of the building, she found herself sucked into another era.

The entrance hall stretched before her, cavernous and dimly lit.

Towering windows of stained glass—cracked in places but still magnificent—lined the eastern wall, casting prisms of blue and green across the wooden floor like underwater shadows.

Dominating the space was a dark mahogany grand staircase that curved upward in a graceful sweep before splitting into two wings at the second floor.

The banisters were intricately carved with maritime motifs—waves, shells, and mermaids guiding the way upward.

Several of the original balusters were missing, replaced with mismatched substitutes that spoke of pragmatic repairs rather than preservation.

The ceiling soared twenty feet above, adorned with a mural of what must have once been a vibrant seascape, now faded and water-stained in several places.

From its center hung a massive crystal chandelier, its hundreds of pendants tinkling softly in the draft circulating through the old house.

Only half of its bulbs were functioning, creating a pattern of light and shadow that made the space feel both grand and neglected.

To the right stood a reception desk that looked out of place—a modern intrusion of laminate and metal amid the Victorian splendor.

A tired-looking woman with steel-gray hair glanced up from her computer, her expression revealing neither welcome nor disdain.

The wall behind her displayed framed photographs of solemn-faced adolescents arranged in graduating classes, their eyes reflecting varying degrees of defiance and resignation.

Olive finally settled on, “What a beautiful building. I’d love to see it all.”

“We take a lot of pride in our facilities,” Margaret said.

“This house was originally owned by the King family. After the matriarch passed away fifty years ago, this building served as a mental hospital for decades. When that was shut down, we were able to purchase the property and turn it into Lighthouse Harbor.”

Great. Even the house had a creepy backstory. Mental institution?

“I’m sure oceanfront property is at a premium in this area,” Olive said. “Certainly if you ever needed money, you could sell this place, make a pretty penny, then buy something farther inland for half the price but with twice the land.”

She narrowed her gaze. “We feel as if the ocean is a point of therapy for the students here. So, while I know it may seem like an extravagant location, we believe it’s important.”

“Makes sense. I’d love a tour.”

“Then let’s go.” Margaret led her across the foyer, through some double doors, and into a dark hallway.

She rattled off facts about the home as they walked.

Lighthouse Harbor occupied what locals still called “the King Estate,” a sprawling Victorian mansion built in 1873 by shipping magnate Jeremiah King.

The mansion featured three distinct wings radiating from a central core, giving it a roughly T-shaped footprint that covered nearly twenty thousand square feet.

The central building housed the administrative offices. The enormous entrance hall with its grand staircase and what had once been formal parlors had been converted to classrooms and therapy rooms.

The east wing contained the girls’ dormitory, with twenty-five single rooms arranged along a wide corridor, each with original woodwork and tall windows that rattle in coastal winds.

The west wing mirrored the same layout for the male students, though many rooms still featured the reinforced doors and observation windows from its days as a mental institution.

The mansion could accommodate fifty students total, though current enrollment hovered at thirty-seven.

The dining hall occupied what had once been the hospital’s community room, its high ceilings and massive windows offering spectacular but isolated views of the churning Atlantic far below the cliff’s edge.

But Olive barely listened as Margaret droned on. She already knew most of this information since she’d done her research before coming. But seeing the place for herself gave her a different perspective.

The students upon arriving here probably felt terrified.

One of the rooms on the administrative hallway caught Olive’s eye as she and Margaret stood nearby, Margaret still spouting facts. Olive tried to look interested.

But the door to this room was cracked open, and a single eye stared out at her, blackness stretching beyond the figure.

Strange.

And creepy.

But whoever was behind that door now had Olive’s attention.

“Director Ingraham?” A woman stuck her head out from an office behind them and called for Margaret.

“Excuse me a moment please,” Margaret murmured before walking toward the woman.

Leaving Olive alone.

Maybe this was her chance to find out some answers.

She hadn’t expected to jump in so early, but she couldn’t miss this opportunity either.

She had to know the story behind the eye staring at her now.

Swallowing hard, Olive started down the hall.

The eye continued to stare at her.

Her muscles stretched taut with anxiety as she wondered what she might discover.

She took a hesitant step forward, the wood floor creaking beneath her.

Two steps later, the lights flickered overhead.

Her heart pounded harder.

It was just the storm, she told herself. Just the storm.

Finally, she reached the doorway.

The person behind the door didn’t open it wider. But that eye watched her every move. Up close, it almost looked like a pool of black.

She repressed a shiver.

Based on the height and wide-eyed expression, Olive figured this must be a child.

That was probably it. This person was most likely an innocent child who was just as curious about Olive as Olive was about him or her.

“Hi, I’m Liv.” She bent down slightly and lowered her voice. “Is everything okay?”

No response.

“I saw you looking at me, and I was worried. Do you want to talk?”

The eye blinked.

She leaned closer. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

More blinking.

Had she broken through?

She waited for whatever this person would do next.

The door started to ease open.

She held her breath as she waited to see the face of an innocent but scared child.

Instead, a shriek cut through the air.

The noise sounded otherworldly—high-pitched, loud, almost frantic.

Olive drew back, her pulse pounding in her ears.

The child slammed the door shut.

Before Olive could figure out what was going on, footsteps rushed down the hall behind her.

Margaret appeared, a scolding look on her face. “I didn’t think you’d wander off.”

She said the words as if she were reprimanding a student.

“I . . . I didn’t.” Olive shrugged, keeping her voice light. “I saw someone looking at me, and I thought he or she wanted to talk.”

Margaret pursed her lips, eyes still narrow. “Peyton is . . . well, Peyton is different. Definitely not the first student I intended for you to meet. Why don’t we head back down this way?”

Without waiting for an answer, Margaret took Olive’s arm and led her down the hallway, back toward the living room area.

But the shriek continued to echo in Olive’s ears.

This was a home for troubled youth.

However, that student hadn’t sounded troubled.

He or she had sounded scared.