Shoplyfter - Aubree Ice -

Morgan’s face flushed. He had been played. There was nothing there.

“Have a seat, Miss…?” he finally said, gesturing to a plastic chair across from him.

Morgan’s eyebrow twitched. He had expected crying. He had expected denial. But the invitation was new. Shoplyfter - Aubree Ice

The door clicked shut. Now it was just Aubree and Morgan.

The fluorescent lights of Valmont’s , an upscale department store, hummed like a beehive. Aubree Ice moved through the cosmetic section with the practiced glide of a cat. She was dressed simply—a cream-colored cashmere sweater, high-waisted jeans, and scuffed Doc Martens. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her pale blue eyes scanned the displays without moving her head. Morgan’s face flushed

Sandra held up a hand, her walkie-talkie crackling. “Yes. Could you please come with me for a moment?”

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. “Have a seat, Miss…

Morgan sighed, the sound of a man who had heard that exact sentence fifteen thousand times. “Miss Ice, we have you on camera near the case. We have you bending down, reaching into your bag. The timing is… unfortunate.”

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.

Morgan’s face flushed. He had been played. There was nothing there.

“Have a seat, Miss…?” he finally said, gesturing to a plastic chair across from him.

Morgan’s eyebrow twitched. He had expected crying. He had expected denial. But the invitation was new.

The door clicked shut. Now it was just Aubree and Morgan.

The fluorescent lights of Valmont’s , an upscale department store, hummed like a beehive. Aubree Ice moved through the cosmetic section with the practiced glide of a cat. She was dressed simply—a cream-colored cashmere sweater, high-waisted jeans, and scuffed Doc Martens. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her pale blue eyes scanned the displays without moving her head.

Sandra held up a hand, her walkie-talkie crackling. “Yes. Could you please come with me for a moment?”

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.

Morgan sighed, the sound of a man who had heard that exact sentence fifteen thousand times. “Miss Ice, we have you on camera near the case. We have you bending down, reaching into your bag. The timing is… unfortunate.”

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.