Page 45 of Artifice (Pros and Cons Mysteries #4)

T he boardroom occupied what had once been the King mansion’s grand dining room.

Original oak paneling darkened by time surrounded a massive table that gleamed under a crystal chandelier.

Portraits of stern-faced men—former directors of the mental institution, Olive assumed—stared down from gilded frames.

“Ms. Bettencourt, welcome.” Principal Denarau gestured to an empty chair he’d saved for her. “As I’ve told you before, we’re honored by your interest in our institution.”

Olive smiled and adjusted her silk blazer. The Liv Bettencourt persona demanded power dressing, and this outfit had cost more than her real apartment’s monthly rent.

“I appreciate the invitation.” She took the seat near the front of the table. “My family’s foundation is always looking for innovative therapeutic approaches.”

Director Ingraham sat at the head of the table, her posture rigid as she introduced the board members one by one.

“Dr. Lawrence Chen, our medical advisor. Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore, representing our primary investors. Mr. James Morgan, our legal counsel. Dr. Victor Wells, whom you met earlier. And Mr. Dallas Sheffield, who joins us from California.”

Olive froze at the last name, keeping her expression neutral through sheer force of will.

Sheffield? It couldn’t be.

The headmaster from Oakridge Academy?

Brianna’s dad.

The man Olive’s dad had ruined.

Would he remember Olive Sterling, the quiet girl who disappeared the same night the school lost millions?

Sheffield’s eyes flickered over her with polite interest then away.

Olive released a silent breath. Twelve years was a long time.

She’d been a child then, and she looked different now. She was all grown up.

He shouldn’t recognize her.

Still, anxiety coiled in her stomach.

Director Ingraham cleared her throat. “Mr. Morgan will address the financial statements first, then we’ll discuss the success metrics of our therapeutic approach.”

As Morgan droned on about budgets and allocations, Olive scanned the other board members.

Mrs. Whitmore kept checking her phone under the table. Dr. Chen’s expression remained impassive, though his fingers drummed nervously against his leather portfolio. Principal Denarau nodded at appropriate intervals, his charisma on full display.

“Which brings us to the specialized equipment expenses,” Morgan was saying. “As you can see on page twelve, our investment in the new ‘pharmaceutical compliance program’ has significantly improved student outcomes.”

Olive flipped to the page, noting the vague language and enormous sums listed. This had to be connected to what Abe had told her—the pills they were forcing on students.

“If I may,” she interrupted. “What metrics are you using to measure these improvements? I’m curious about your definition of ‘success.’”

Director Ingraham’s smile tightened. “Dr. Wells can speak to that.”

Wells leaned forward. “Reduced incidents of defiance, improved focus, greater amenability to therapeutic intervention.” His gaze lingered on Olive. “We’ve developed quite a remarkable approach to behavioral modification.”

Something in his tone made the hair on Olive’s neck stand up.

She pressed on. “And the pharmaceuticals involved—are these FDA-approved treatments?”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Chen and Whitmore exchanged glances.

“They’re classified as supplements,” Wells replied. “Proprietary formulations that don’t require FDA oversight.”

“Fascinating,” Olive said. “My foundation typically requires independent verification of?—”

“Excuse me,” Sheffield interrupted, his head tilted. “Have we met before, Ms. Bettencourt? You seem remarkably familiar.”

Every muscle in Olive’s body tensed. “I don’t believe so.”

“No, I’m certain . . .” His eyes narrowed.

Olive held her breath as she waited to see if he remembered.

The room seemed to close in around Olive.

Denarau and Ingraham exchanged confused looks.

“I can’t place you now,” Sheffield finally said. “Maybe it will come to me.”

“Maybe.” Olive tried not to show her relief.

Tension stretched between them like a wire. In that moment, Olive knew one thing with certainty: Whatever was happening at Lighthouse Harbor was far more dangerous than she’d initially believed.

Director Ingraham cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should move on to the facilities expansion proposal? Ms. Bettencourt, you expressed interest in our renovation plans.”

Olive nodded, her mind racing.

She needed to get out of this room, warn Tevin, and accelerate their investigation before Sheffield could confirm his suspicions.

“Yes.” She forced a smile. “I heard something about some tunnels beneath the east wing. I understand they’re quite . . . extensive.”

The sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Whitmore told Olive she’d hit a nerve.

“Those tunnels are condemned,” Denarau said quickly. “Not part of any renovation plans.”

“Really? That’s good. I was worried when I first heard about them.” She placed a hand over her heart, trying to show her sincerity.

Olive watched everyone’s reactions, carefully noting who flinched, who remained stone-faced, who looked to others for cues. The information was telling—someone was lying.

And Sheffield still watched her, trying to place her.

What would happen now?