Page 12 of Artifice
Olive would be eating here again . . . and seeing if she could catch Stephanie alone sometime to ask her more questions.
CHAPTER 6
Twenty minutes later, when the mystery man rose, Olive knew that was her cue to leave also.
She wiped her mouth with the napkin and signaled for the check. The man was gathering his papers now, sliding them into the folder with the careful movements of someone handling something valuable.
He’d been alone the entire time Olive had watched him, yet he’d ordered two drinks and barely touched his food. Was this a meeting that never happened? Or one that had concluded before Olive arrived? If so, why had he lingered for so long?
She paid in cash, leaving a generous tip that would be remembered if anyone asked about her later. Then she stood, pulling out her phone.
As she walked toward the front door, she began typing an imaginary message to no one.
The man headed for the door also, folder tucked under his arm.
Olive timed her movements carefully, angling her path to intersect with his just before the exit.
“Oh!” Olive stumbled forward at precisely the right moment, her shoulder colliding with his chest as her free hand shot out—not to steady herself, but with deliberate clumsiness that sent the folder flying from his grasp.
Papers scattered across the worn wooden floorboards.
“I’m so sorry!” Olive’s hand covered the O of horror on her mouth. “I wasn’t looking where I was going!”
The man dropped to one knee, scrambling to collect the documents. His face was flushed with alarm rather than anger.
Olive knelt beside him, apologies flowing as her eyes rapidly scanned the papers.
Blueprints. Lighthouse Harbor blueprints—but not the renovation plans Director Ingraham had shown her.
These showed something else entirely, markings in red pen highlighting what appeared to be a section of the cliff face beneath the east wing.
Were those . . . tunnels?
“It’s fine.” The man snatched a page from her hands, his fingers trembling. “Accidents happen.”
“Let me help you.” Olive reached for another document—this one a spreadsheet with columns of dates and amounts.
She caught a glimpse of today’s date and a figure that made her eyes widen before he yanked it away.
“I’ve got it.” His voice turned sharp, almost defensive.
As he gathered the last paper, Olive noticed a business card that had fallen from his pocket. In the second before his hand covered it, she memorized what she could: “Newmark Consulting” and a partial name—Simon L.
They both stood, the awkward dance of apology and retreat. Olive made a show of checking her phone for damage while covertly studying his face.
“Again, I’m so terribly sorry.” Olive touched his arm with just enough pressure to seem sincere. “I should pay more attention.”
His eyes met hers briefly, and something in them—recognition? suspicion?—made her pulse quicken.
“No harm done.” Despite his words, his knuckles were white around the edges of the folder. “Have a good evening.”
As he pushed through the door into the rain, Olive waited exactly seventeen seconds before following.
She’d come to The Salty Kettle hoping for a good meal and perhaps some local gossip about Lighthouse Harbor.
Instead, Olive had found something far more valuable: confirmation that she wasn’t the only one with an interest in the cliffside property—and possibly the first real clue as to why three teenagers had gone missing from the facility in the past year.
Remaining in the shadows, Olive stepped onto the sidewalk.
