Page 47 of Artifice (Pros and Cons Mysteries #4)

B efore the meeting was over, Olive excused herself to use the bathroom.

In truth, she wanted to try and call Tevin again.

He hadn’t sent her any texts or tried to call her back, and she was growing more concerned by the minute.

Tucking in the single stall bathroom with the door locked, she dialed his number. But again, just like before, it went to voicemail.

Her worry continued to grow.

Something was wrong. She was sure of it.

There was only one person she could think of to ask about it.

She stepped from the bathroom. Instead of going back into the conference room, she walked toward the lobby.

She spotted the person she was looking for.

Simon. She’d seen him on more than one occasion using the tables and chairs there to do his work.

He stood beside one of those tables now.

With no one else around, she carefully strode up to him.

She lowered her voice as she asked, “Have you seen my friend Tevin today?”

He raised his eyebrows. “The man who confronted us last night?”

“Stop playing this game. You knew who he was before you even met him.”

He didn’t argue. “No, I haven’t seen him. What’s wrong?”

“He’s not answering his phone, and that’s not like him. I don’t know who you are, and I’m still not a hundred percent sure I can trust you. But I know I can’t trust anyone in that room where I’ve been all day.”

His expression sobered. “Wise choice. What do you want me to do?”

“If you hear anything . . . can you let me know? Please?”

He stared at her another moment, his hands perched casually in the pockets of his khaki pants. “I can do that. Where was he supposed to be?”

“He was researching that warehouse where we saw Principal Denarau.”

He ran a hand over his mouth and jaw. “Sounds like a bad idea.”

“He wasn’t supposed to do anything in person.”

His gaze remained stormy. “I’ll see what I can find out. But it will cost you.”

Tension immediately stretched across her back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean nothing’s free.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Then he walked away.

It was risky, but Olive knew what she had to do.

She walked past one of the administrators and pretended to accidentally run into her. She mumbled an apology, blaming it on her clumsiness.

But when she walked away, she had a set of keys in her hands.

Keys that would get her into the dispensary—which was just what she needed.

She turned down the hallway and paused.

Glancing behind her, she saw no one was looking.

Olive checked her watch. Based on what Simon had told her, the night supervisor would be making rounds in the west wing for approximately twelve more minutes. It wasn’t much time, but it had to be enough.

The key slid into the lock with a soft click. Olive held her breath as she turned it, wincing at the slight squeak of the hinges as the door swung open. She slipped inside and closed it behind her, using her phone’s flashlight to scan the room.

Metal shelving lined the walls, filled with neatly organized medication bottles, blister packs, and small cardboard boxes. At the center stood a stainless-steel table with a digital scale and pill counter.

A logbook lay open beside a computer terminal.

Olive moved to the shelves, scanning labels. Standard pharmaceuticals occupied the front sections—antibiotics, painkillers, antihistamines.

Nothing unusual.

She checked her watch again. Ten minutes.

She moved deeper into the room.

The back wall featured a separate cabinet with a keypad lock. Amateur. Olive pulled out a small device from her pocket—a thermal sensor that would reveal which numbers on the keypad had been recently pressed. Four digits glowed faintly: 2, 5, 7, 9.

Four digits, sixteen possible combinations.

She started trying them systematically.

2-5-7-9. Error. 2-5-9-7. Error. 2-7-5-9. Error. 2-7-9-5 . . .

The light flashed green. The lock disengaged with a soft hiss.

Inside the cabinet, a different type of organization system awaited. Here, medications were arranged not by name but by alphanumeric codes.

Each shelf contained identical amber bottles with white labels bearing designations like “NZ-40X” and “PL-17M.” No pharmaceutical names, no dosage information—only codes and lot numbers.

Olive pulled out her phone and began taking photos of the cabinet’s contents. She selected three bottles with different codes from different shelves and slipped them into the padded inner pocket of her jacket.

As she closed the cabinet, Olive froze.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside.