Page 8 of Artifice
“I . . . I didn’t.” Olive shrugged, keeping her voice light. “I saw someone looking at me, and I thought he or she wanted to talk.”
Margaret pursed her lips, eyes still narrow. “Peyton is . . . well, Peyton is different. Definitely not the first student I intended for you to meet. Why don’t we head back down this way?”
Without waiting for an answer, Margaret took Olive’s arm and led her down the hallway, back toward the living room area.
But the shriek continued to echo in Olive’s ears.
This was a home for troubled youth.
However, that student hadn’t sounded troubled.
He or she had sounded scared.
CHAPTER 4
While Margaret continued the tour, Olive tried to get the image of that singular dark eye out of her mind. But it was hard to forget.
As was the terrified cry.
As they walked, Olive noticed how the salt-laden wind whistled through gaps in the century-old window frames. The sound created a symphony of moans and whispers throughout the sprawling structure, almost making the house seem alive. The oak floors beneath her seemed to creak with every footstep, announcing arrivals long before they appeared.
Most of the students arrived at Lighthouse Harbor through court mandates—juvenile offenders given one last chance before more serious consequences. Others came from desperate families, their substantial tuition payments secured through second mortgages or depleted college funds.
A small percentage were state-funded cases, children with nowhere else to go after cycling through foster homes that couldn’t handle their behaviors. The average stay lasted between six and twelve months, though some remained for up to two years if their progress warranted the extended program.
The home operated through a complex funding structure: private tuition covered about 60 percent of operational costs, with state contracts providing another 25 percent. The remainder came from private donations.
Halfway through the tour, the thunderstorm fully arrived. The building seemed to inhale and exhale with the storm, its timber bones expanding and contracting as they had for generations.
In its own way, the grand old structure was perhaps the most effective therapist at Lighthouse Harbor. Its isolation forced introspection, its history offered perspective, and its very survival against the relentless sea was a testament to resilience.
For teenagers who’d exhausted all other options, resilience was the most valuable lesson of all.
They breezed through a recreation room then the kitchen. Finally, Margaret led Olive to her office.
“Let me show you this.” Margaret pulled what looked like a scroll from her bookshelf and unrolled the paper across her desk.
Olive crept closer for a better look.
Margaret began to enthusiastically show Olive the architectural plans for renovations the facility desperately needed. As she pointed to the blueprints, her voice rose with barely contained excitement as she described the proposed addition to the east wing that would house an expanded therapy center and vocational training facilities.
“The state grants only cover our basic operational needs, Ms. Bettencourt,” she explained, straightening her skirt. “But these young people deserve more than the basics. Our heating system dates back to the sixties. Last winter, we had students wearing coats indoors for nearly three weeks when it failed during a particularly brutal cold snap.”
She gestured toward the windows where the view of an old lighthouse was partially obscured by scaffolding.
“And the electrical system . . .” She sighed. “Well, I’m sure you noticed the lights flickering when you came in. We’re constantly at risk of falling out of code compliance.”
“It definitely sounds as if there’s a big need for financial donations. I’ve narrowed my choices down to three different nonprofits. Yours is one of them.” Olive didn’t want anyone to feel too confident that her decision was made.
“We’re so pleased to hear that. As you can imagine, the work that we do here is life-changing. The funding you’re potentially offering us would go really far.”
“I agree that this place has a lot of potential. However, I’d like to know more. My father instilled in me the importance of doing my research before giving money away. I want to make sure I’m using these funds for something positive, giving it to a nonprofit that won’t simply flush it down the drain or use it to pad the pockets of administrators.”
Margaret’s expression was unreadable as she observed Olive. “That’s only wise. I’m confident that after you spend some time here you’ll see that’s exactly who we are. This money will go toward bettering life for these students.”
Olive wasn’t so sure about that. It was too easy for those in positions of power to cut corners or abuse the system.
Despite that, she offered a smile. “Now that I’ve gotten the tour, I’d love to get settled in at the bed-and-breakfast where I’m staying. I find travel to be quite exhausting. But if the invitation still stands, I’ll come back tomorrow to learn more.”
