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Aubree didn’t steal the scarf. She was smarter than that.
Sandra held up a hand, her walkie-talkie crackling. “Yes. Could you please come with me for a moment?”
“Ticklish?” he muttered.
Detective Morgan Cross didn’t look up when the door opened. He was sitting behind a metal desk, reviewing a bank of grainy security monitors. He was a large man with a salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that had forgotten how to blink with surprise. Shoplyfter - Aubree Ice
Morgan’s face flushed. He had been played. There was nothing there.
She did. Slowly. She pulled her sweater over her head in one fluid motion, leaving her in a simple black bralette. She was lean, with the taut muscles of a rock climber.
Sandra hesitated. “Sir, protocol says—” Aubree didn’t steal the scarf
She unhooked the bralette with her back to him, letting it fall. She turned around, holding it in her hands. Nothing fell out. No scarf. No magnet. Just pale skin and a tiny, silver belly button ring.
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.
“My associate,” Morgan nodded toward Sandra, “observed you selecting merchandise and concealing it in your bag. Specifically, a silk scarf from the designer case.” “Yes
Morgan’s eyebrow twitched. He had expected crying. He had expected denial. But the invitation was new.
Aubree’s lips curled into the first genuine smile she had shown all day. “You’re thorough. I like that.”
“Nervous,” she corrected.