Molly drummed her fingers against the park bench, watching the party preparations through binoculars. Inflatable castles, balloon arches, and stacks of wrapped presents were appearing like clockwork in the backyard of 42 Maple Street. Bill slouched beside her, munching on a hot dog he'd swiped from a nearby vendor. Mustard dripped onto his surveillance photos. "You're sure about this?" he asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Stealing from kids feels low, even for us." She lowered the binoculars and shot him a withering look. The late afternoon sun caught the silver in her hair, making it shimmer like stolen diamonds. "That's not just any kid's party," she said. "That's Preston Montgomery IV's seventh birthday bash. Those presents are worth more than our last three jobs combined." Bill watched a catering van back into the driveway, its side emblazoned with "Prestigious Party Partners." The driver wore a tailored uniform that probably cost more than Bill's rent. He crumpled his hot dog wrapper and sighed. Sometimes he missed the simplicity of stealing from banks. At least they had insurance.