Molly leaned against the old oak creaks of the mansion, eyeing the room through the grimy window. "I'm telling you, Bill, we can do it. The kids have been practicing their pinatas and we've got the delivery guy's schedule nailed." Bill raised an eyebrow, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Practice? We're talking tens of thousands under the tree, Molly. We're talking gold. We're talking Gouda chocolate." The mansion's foyer, if you didn't know any better. Built for a century-old guy with a midlife crisis. The kind of guy who thinks all he's got left is his prized collection of rubber chickens. "Right, so we're talking. How exactly do we get past the swinging doors, Bill?" "They won't be swinging anytime soon," Molly said dryly. "But we'll need to wait until the coast is clear. The parents have let their guard down on this one night. Their champagne is flowing and the music is loud." "Great, so now it's like we're at a Renaissance fair," Bill said, wringing his hands. "But don't worry, I have a plan. We'll get in through the kitchen window. The one on the west side. It's quiet that way." "I was thinking more along the family's Christmas tree, where the presents get stashed. Easy peasy." "That means we'll have to sneak along with the rest, steal the key." Molly glanced around. "You see what I mean." Bill nodded. "Good. We just need to get the stash inside. And load it up." Molly nodded. "I got a text from the owner said the manager's been warned by a suspicious neighbor. He's asking what's going on. We can just wing it?" "Or 'what in the world are we doing? We're thieves.'" Their eyes met, and for a moment, the only sound was the creaking of the old house.