Aubree’s eyes went wide with perfect, Oscar-worthy innocence. “A scarf? I… I don’t have a scarf. I didn’t take anything.”
For the first time in fifteen years, Detective Morgan Cross had been out-thieved—not of a silk scarf, but of his dignity. And Aubree Ice walked out of Valmont’s with the only thing she had come for: the truth on a folded piece of paper, ready to be framed as art. Shoplyfter - Aubree Ice
She saw the floorwalker, Sandra, a woman with sensible shoes and a permanent furrow in her brow, pretending to fold scarves twenty feet away. Aubree smiled. Amateur. I didn’t take anything
He moved to her jean pockets. Empty. He knelt down and checked her boots. Nothing. He stood up, frustrated. His eyes landed on her bralette. The fabric was thin, but there was a slight, unnatural bulge near the left cup. Aubree smiled
She turned. He began a standard pat-down—shoulders, ribs, waistband. When his hands reached the small of her back, she let out a soft gasp.
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