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.

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.

She slid it across the desk.

“Routine inventory check,” Sandra lied. “Won’t take a minute.”

Aubree’s eyes went wide with perfect, Oscar-worthy innocence. “A scarf? I… I don’t have a scarf. I didn’t take anything.”

“Nervous,” she corrected.

“I said wait outside.”