Angel could allude to her bottom-feeding status in Woodland Hills’s food chain without a twinge of angst. Being out of high school eight years had taught her there was more to life than being a homecoming queen or a cheerleader. But she was not so far removed that she didn’t realize that if she really were a high school student in this situation, she would appreciate the teacher’s sensitivity.
Jake’s neck turned red above his collar. “Angel, please don’t misunderstand—”
“Don’t worry about it.” She snapped her gum. “I have high self-esteem. I can handle it. I have a lot of potential.”
“Yes, you do.” His words were sincere and reassuring. He’d totally missed her sarcasm. “If you apply yourself, there’s no limit to how far you can go.”
“Yeah, you’re right. My answer about the nerve gas was brilliant.”
She checked the clock again and her heart shifted into high gear. If she ran most of the way, she might still be on time. She stood. “I hate to cut this party short, but I’m a busy girl. I’ve got places to go, people to see.”
“Okay.” He held up a hand. “Short and sweet. I need to set up a time for a home visit. Mr. H had gotten all but yours done.”
“Home visit?” She forced herself to remain calm. After all, he had to be kidding. Didn’t he? She cast a surreptitious glance, searching for a sign that he was just teasing—a twinkle in his eye, a twitch of his lip, even a raised brow. But all she found was an earnest expression. Her heart sank.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds.” His dimples flashed unexpectedly. “It gives me a chance to meet your parents.”
After more than ten years, the response was automatic. “They’re dead.”
Concern darkened his gaze. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well, me too.”
“You live with relatives?”
She shook her head. “Been there. Done that.”
“Group home?”
Angel lied with a straight face. “About as bad. Foster parents.”
He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Do you like them?”
She gave him a pitying glance. “What do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
The last foster home she’d been in, the one she’d left the day she turned eighteen, flashed in her mind.
“They’re old and crabby, and the place stinks like Ben-Gay,” she said flatly.
“That’s too bad.” Jake shifted in his chair and shuffled a gray mechanical pencil from one hand to another. He paused, then cleared his throat. “How about I come by tonight after dinner? Say, about six?”
“Make it tomorrow. I’m busy tonight.” Angel didn’t wait for his reply. She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door.
“Six o’clock?” he called to her.
“Sounds good.” Angel turned in the doorway. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you about the smell.”
She hurried down the shiny linoleum, her mind racing as fast as her steps. He’d caught her off guard with his request and she’d thought fast. Maybe a little too fast. Still, how hard could it be to come up with a couple of old, crabby, foster parents?
Jake stuck his head into the principal’s office. “You needed to see me, Tom?”
Tom Jorgens looked up and nodded for him to come in. In his late forties, Tom had more the air of a Fortune 500 CEO than a midwestern high school principal. His dark brown hair was cut short in the latest style, his suit was hand tailored, and his cuff links were real diamonds. The tortoiseshell reading glasses he’d recently acquired completed the picture.
Jake was already in the room by the time he realized Tom was on the phone. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he walked across the thick plush carpet and took a seat in his favorite leather wing-back. His gaze shifted slowly around the room. After almost three years, he still marveled at the magic Tom’s wife had wrought with her decorating skill. Done in a soft teal with a touch of gray, the once-sterile office now radiated the rich warmth usually seen only in the offices of top administrators.
The school district’s money for renovation had been nonexistent, but Jane Jorgens had declared the redone office to be her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary gift to her husband. She’d died less than a year later. Sadness rose inside Jake, despite his efforts to squelch it.
Jane’s unexpected death in a car accident had hit Tom hard. His despair had been so immense, so profound, that the staff had wondered if he would survive.
Tom hung up the phone and smiled. The simple gesture emphasized his gauntness. Never a small man, he’d lost so much weight over the past year that his clothes practically hung on his skeletal frame. Jake wondered if Tom would ever get over his grief.
“So, have you heard any more from the cops?” Tom snapped.
Jake didn’t even blink. Tom had become notorious for his abrupt manner; it was as much a change as his physical appearance. Still, Jake, of all people, could understand. He’d lost his brother last year and he knew he’d certainly changed. The part of Jake that had been trusting had died in that apartment with Jim, and had not been resurrected.
“Well, have you?” Tom’s smile faded and his gaze sharpened. Lately, all Tom could talk about was the fact that a police investigation into an interstate methamphetamine ring seemed to point to someone at the school.
“Why would they contact me and not you?” Jake forced himself to ignore the impatience in the principal’s voice. Once jovial and even-tempered, Tom had become irritable, lashing out at staff over trivial matters he once wouldn’t have given a second thought. They’d all learned to walk on eggshells.
Even now, Jake chose his words carefully. “I haven’t spoken to anyone connected with the investigation in almost two months—not since before Christmas.”
“You don’t think they’d plant another undercover officer here without letting us know?”
“I can’t imagine why they’d do that,” Jake said thoughtfully. “They let us know when they’d placed the other two.”
“I think they blame us.” Tom’s eyes glittered, and he leaned forward resting his elbows on the desk. “They think we blew the cover on those other two.”
“C’mon Tom. Only you, Bob Harper and I knew they were undercover,” Jake said. “And we both know Bob didn’t say a word.”
“What about those new students this semester?” Like a bulldog, Tom refused to let the subject drop. “Any chance one of them could be a cop?”
“No,” Jake said immediately. “Not a one.”
“Don’t speak so quickly.” Tom tapped his pen like a drumstick against the dark cherry wood desktop. “Give it some thought. How many of them are there?”
Jake thought for a moment. “Three. Two girls and one boy.”
“Anything suspicious about any of them?”
“You mean like have I caught them handcuffing other students to the flagpole? Or reading someone their Miranda rights?”
Tom shot him a look that said his attempt at humor wasn’t appreciated.