Page 24 of Artifice
Olive finally looked up at his face.
It was . . . Simon. The man from The Salty Kettle.
His face registered surprise also. “You? We meet again.”
Olive drew in another shaky breath. “Yes, we do.”
Just then, Margaret came into focus from behind him.
Olive squared her shoulders and tried to compose herself.
“What is that room?” She nodded behind her. “Do you really put students in there?”
Margaret glanced around as if she didn’t appreciate Olive’s tone. “It’s the Quiet Room.”
“There are handcuffs. Stains. And it smells like urine.”
Margaret’s face remained stubbornly set with no sign of apology. “It’s one of the methods we use when our students are defiant. It seems harsh, but it’s a necessary evil. What were you doing in there anyway? You were supposed to remain in the classroom until I returned.”
“Don’t try to deflect.” Olive shook her head, unable to ease the panic she’d felt. “I demand answers.”
Margaret glanced around again as if she didn’t like to be defied in public. “Maybe we could talk about this somewhere more private.”
“Right now, I just need some air.” Olive took a step and wobbled.
Simon grabbed her arm to steady her. “I’ll walk with you—just for safety.”
Simon nodded at Margaret as if giving her a silent assurance he’d handle this.
But there was nohandlingthis. That room was unacceptable.
Olive would have a hard time keeping her cover knowing that room even existed.
CHAPTER 13
Olive continued to breathe in and out as Simon led her outside.
As a rush of salty air hit her, gratefulness filled her, especially after experiencing the stifling atmosphere inside.
The courtyard spread before her in faded grandeur—a once-elegant space generations of residents had enjoyed. Weathered flagstones formed a circular pattern around an ancient fountain that no longer functioned, its stone cherub now missing an arm and stained with decades of sea spray.
Four stone benches surrounded the fountain, their surfaces worn smooth by countless occupants seeking respite from the mansion’s oppressive walls. Beyond the formal stonework, a path wound through neglected gardens where ornamental shrubs had grown wild, their shapes distorted into hunched, arthritic forms by the coastal winds.
The entire space was enclosed by a low stone wall that separated the cultivated grounds from the cliffs beyond, where the constant thunder of waves against rocks provided a haunting soundtrack to the scene.
From this vantage point, Olive could see twisted junipers clinging to the landscape, their trunks nearly horizontal fromyears of battling Atlantic gales. Small details told their own stories: cigarette butts hidden beneath the benches, a weathered jacket forgotten on one of the stone seats, and, most telling, scratch marks on the courtyard’s only gate. The long lines made it seem as if someone had desperately tried to claw their way out—or perhaps, more disturbing still, to escape something evil here at the school.
Her insides felt cold at the thought.
“I’m Simon,” the man started as they sat on one of the stone benches. “Simon Long.”
Olive turned her thoughts from the gate back to Simon. “Liv Bettencourt.”
“I know.”
Surprise washed through her. He hadn’t acted like he knew her yesterday when she’d run into him.
She daintily crossed her legs, reminding herself to remain elegant. “I guess everyone here knows who I am?”
