Inspector Sloane Strikes Again

I was still turning it over in my mind when the man in the lead—slicked-back hair, a suit that fit too well for a department store salary—closed the distance between us in a single stride.

I knew him. Operations Manager Gary Walsh, according to the file.

He jabbed a finger an inch from my nose, spit flying with every word.

"Everybody, look at this piece of trash! He's been picking our jewelry counter clean for months!"

"Somebody help me hold him here—I'm calling the police right now!"

I froze, then looked up at him and let out a cold laugh.

"Manager Walsh, did you leave your brain at home this morning? A necklace falls out of my jacket, and that automatically makes me a thief? This is my loss prevention badge. Can't you read?"

Loss prevention officers were the store's invisible patrol—technically under the security department, tasked with watching quietly, gathering evidence, and stopping people from walking off with the merchandise.

I hadn't expected a store manager, of all people, to stand there in front of a crowd and lie through his teeth.

Walsh clearly hadn't expected some low-level loss prevention officer to talk back to him like that either. His face went red.

The woman beside him—the one with the influencer face, Mona Sutton—leaned into his arm on cue, shoulders trembling as she worked up a few tears.

"Manager Walsh, you have to get justice for us customers. People like this always carry fake IDs and lie without blinking. She didn't just steal from me—when I called her out, she tried to hit me!

"I'm just a girl, I was terrified. What if she's got a weapon on her too?"

The onlookers who'd gathered were already worked up.

An older woman jabbed a finger at me and started in. "Young people these days have no shame. Steal something and still act like the wronged party!"

The few young men who'd been itching to play hero pressed in closer, boxing me in.

"Don't waste your breath on scum like this. Grab her first, talk later!"

I looked at this crowd of well-meaning bystanders, being played like puppets without a clue, and almost laughed at how absurd it was.

Not worth the effort of arguing with them.

I reached straight into my inner pocket, ready to pull out my real credentials—the risk control inspector's badge, signed off by corporate headquarters itself.

My fingers had just brushed the stiff edge of the leather case when Mona's hand, nails painted a garish red, shot out.

Her ankle buckled. She collapsed against me like she had no bones left in her body, both hands clamping down hard on the wrist I'd been reaching into my jacket with.

"She's trying to kill me!"

Mona let out a piercing shriek.