“I’ve reviewed your Spanish quiz. It may be wise to discuss your comfort level with the material in my class.”

She propped a hand on her hip and tossed her mane of hair, playing the part of a snotty teen to the hilt for the benefit of the librarian at the desk—the only other occupant on this first day of school. “I never liked Spanish.”

Her ability to stay in character was a positive sign.

“That may be true, but you are taking my class. We can talk in the group study room.” He indicated the glassed-in cube with a table for six he’d scoped out earlier. To anyone passing by, their exchange would appear to be a work session.

“Whatever.” She flipped a hand at him.

He took the lead, waited for her to precede him in, and closed the door. “Let’s sit there.” He motioned to two chairs facing the window. Offering a clear view of their conversation would add to the aura of innocence.

She scanned the chairs that backed up to the window . . . hesitated while she no doubt processed his strategy . . . then flounced over and sat in one of the seats he’d indicated. Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave him a defiant look that fit her rebellious teen character—but might not be all acting.

After taking the adjacent chair, he set his cell between them, activated a white noise app, and folded his hands on the table. “I doubt the room is bugged, but precautions can’t hurt. This will mask our conversation.” He kept his volume low. “Put your Spanish book on the table.”

In silence, she pulled out the text and placed it in front of her.

He reached over and flipped to the first chapter. “Keep your attention mostly on the book as we talk.” He pointed to a word on the page. “What are you doing here?”

Playing along, she leaned forward and peered at the word. “Working a case. What are you doing here?”

“The same. I didn’t think you had any interest in undercover work.”

“I was a fit for this job. Are you still DEA?”

“Yes.”

“What are you working on?”

He moved his finger down the page. “Breaking up the St. Louis portion of a Mexican drug cartel pipeline.”

Silence.

He glanced over to find her frowning at him.

Instantly she refocused on the textbook. “At Ivy Hill?”

“It’s become a drop point for the St. Louis operation. Trucks with merchandise destined for Chicago detour here, leave the drugs for pickup, and continue on. We discovered the location by chance in November after one of our agents on another surveillance gig spotted the truck turning into a back entrance, thought it looked suspicious, and did a little poking around after it pulled out.”

The creases on her brow deepened. “Is someone here involved?”