“Why not tell Sasha?”
“She and AJ are in Colorado.”
“Neil?”
It was Claire’s turn to roll her eyes. “He’d try and stop me.”
So that left Cooper.
Shoved into the friend zone.
And as much as he hated that position, he’d despise it more if Claire was left without anyone watching over her.
She pushed off the desk. “You know what, never mind. I can take care of myself.”
He shot out his hand and grasped her forearm before she could storm away. It would have taken so little for her to get out of his hold, but instead she looked at his hand and then his face.
Cooper wanted to stand up next to her, have those blue eyes looking up at him. But that would be torture. She’s eighteen, his head screamed.
Letting go, he swiveled around and walked to a cabinet filled with tracking equipment. Instead of handing it to her, he activated the device and put it in the purse she’d thrown on the chair. “What’s his name?”
For a second she didn’t reply.
“If Jax were here, would you tell her?”
He saw her swallow. “Miles Ketterman.”
Cooper wanted to hate the name, but found it completely harmless. He handed the purse over and brushed his fingers against her in the exchange. Not trusting himself to say more, he sat back down and turned on one of the many screens in front of him to link up with Claire’s tracker.
He should say something smug, something to express friendship and snark. But Cooper didn’t have it in him.
Claire took a few steps toward the door and stopped.
“Thanks, Cooper.”
“If you need backup . . .”
More footsteps and then the sound of the door opening.
Before she could walk away, he finally said what he couldn’t hold in. “You look incredible.” He kept staring forward, seeing her reflection in the monitors.
“Thanks,” she mumbled again before letting the door close behind her.
The following week, Cooper and Neil had a long conversation about the help needed in the London office.
Only now he was back and Claire wasn’t the eighteen-year-old off-limits girl she once was.
Cooper took one last look at the picture of her and Jax before tossing his phone in the passenger seat of his car and leaving the high school parking lot.
CHAPTER FIVE
Claire started her American high school experience in the principal’s office.
“Miss Kelly. Please have a seat.” The principal, Mrs. Hanley, indicated the chair opposite her desk and motioned to the office secretary to close the door behind her as she left.
Once alone in the office, Mrs. Hanley sighed before making her way around her desk. “The detective wasn’t kidding when he said you would look young enough for the job.”
Claire had thought the exact opposite before pulling into the school parking lot. “I suppose that’s why I’m here,” Claire told her.
Mrs. Hanley looked to be in her midfifties, a little on the short side, probably enjoyed one too many desserts on the weekends. Nothing about her appearance said she was anything but a career teacher who managed to work her way up the ranks to the office of high school principal. She lifted Claire’s student profile and started to read. “You live with your aunt, who has legal custody?”
Claire sat back in her chair. “That’s the story.”
The principal grinned. “We have a large number of single-parent students on campus along with several who are being raised by a grandparent or a close family member.”
“Then I’ll blend right in.”
“Got in a little trouble at your last school.” She waved the paper in the air.
“Not too far from my real truth when I was eighteen.”
Mrs. Hanley looked like she wanted details. Claire didn’t oblige. “What is the dropout rate here?”
For a minute, Mrs. Hanley acted as if she didn’t want to answer the question.
“It’s part of the reason we’re here, Mrs. Hanley.”
“Right.” She put Claire’s profile down and folded her hands on top of her desk. “It varies with socioeconomic status and race. Overall we’re sitting at seven percent, more males than females. But in the past three years we’ve seen a surprising number of younger female dropouts than we have in the past.”
“Is there any commonality to the students that you’ve come in contact with that have dropped out?”
“Hard to say. In recent years, the counselors in our district have been used almost exclusively to direct students toward their future colleges and career aspirations. Unfortunately, that didn’t leave a lot of time or energy for reaching out to at-risk kids unless they ended up on academic probation of some sort.”
“Failing classes?” she asked to clarify.
“Exactly. But if they weren’t failing, they never landed on our radar as potential dropouts.”
“What is that percentage?”
“Less than one percent. But five years ago you’d be hard pressed to see a student doing well in school and with a somewhat stable home life just walk away from their high school diploma.”
“Stable doesn’t mean happy.”
“Right. Obviously. My eyes were opened to that when Detective Warren’s people were here. I thought they’d removed the teenage prostitution from the school.”
“I read the profiles. It’s called human trafficking, sex trafficking, for a reason, not simply prostitution.”
Mrs. Hanley nodded. “Of course. If someone is exploiting these kids on my campus, I want to find them.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
The principal nodded and picked up her office phone. “I’m going to introduce you to Mr. Green. He and I are the only ones on campus that know you’re here.”
Two minutes later the vice principal walked in, eyed Claire, and then smiled at Mrs. Hanley. “New student?” he asked.
“One of the special students we talked about.”
With that introduction, Mr. Green lost his smile and scanned Claire up and down. “You’re kidding.”
Claire looked at herself. Jeans and a T-shirt, flat sneakers that lots of teenage kids wore. She applied a little eyeliner and pale lipstick, but otherwise kept the makeup off. At her side, on the floor by her chair, was one of the secondhand backpacks she and Jax had gone out of their way to find so they didn’t look like they’d just hit Target for back-to-school supplies.
Claire stood and extended her hand. “I’m Claire.”
Mr. Green started to smile as he shook her hand.
They both took a seat.
Mrs. Hanley handed Claire’s profile to him.
“Mr. Green is in charge of all disciplinary needs at Auburn High. Any kids caught skipping school, bringing illegal substances or paraphernalia, or engaging in possibly dangerous activities . . .”
“Unless it requires our local police.” Mr. Green looked up from the paper. “Or you.”
“I’m not a cop,” Claire told him.
He looked confused.
“But you work with them,” he said.
“Yes. But blowing our cover for anything that isn’t directly related to our goal isn’t an option for this detail.”