- Aubree Ice | Shoplyfter

“The bra,” he said, his voice flat. “Take it off. Or I call a female officer to do it for me. Your choice.”

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. Shoplyfter - Aubree Ice

Morgan leaned back. The chair creaked. “Aubree. Pretty name. You know why you’re here?” “The bra,” he said, his voice flat

Aubree let her shoulders slump slightly, the posture of a nervous teenager. Inside, she was grinning. Hook, line, and sinker. She followed Sandra past the registers, through a gray door marked “PRIVATE,” and down a cinderblock hallway that smelled of bleach and old carpet. Your choice

She drifted to the fragrance section, then to the accessories—a deliberate route known as the “five-finger discount waltz.” She paused at a locked glass case containing silk scarves. The price tag on one, a hand-painted floral orchid design, read $1,200.

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.”