“Why?” Aubree’s voice was soft, almost a whisper.

“Your bag first,” he said, his voice straining to remain professional.

She then stood up, walked to a rack of cheap umbrellas by the exit, and pretended to take one. She didn’t. But Sandra saw what she wanted to see: a girl with shifty eyes and a bag that looked too heavy.

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.

She walked to the door and paused.

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.

Aubree didn’t steal the scarf. She was smarter than that.

Morgan unfolded it. It was a hand-drawn map of Valmont’s security camera blind spots, labeled with times and guard shift changes.