Page 85 of Artifice
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.”
