Molly spread the blueprints across the kitchen table, her fingers tracing the layout of the suburban home. Bill leaned in, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses and sipping from a lukewarm coffee mug. "Kids' parties are always chaos," Molly muttered, tapping a marker against the diagram. The living room showed multiple entry points, potential blind spots near the gift table. Streamers and balloons would provide excellent cover. Bill nodded, his mustache twitching with anticipation. They'd cased the joint for weeks—wealthy family, spoiled twelve-year-old's birthday, expensive electronics and collector's items wrapped in shiny paper. Amateur parents would be distracted by screaming children and sugar-fueled mayhem. "We go in during the piñata," Bill whispered. "Maximum distraction." Molly's lips curled into a sly grin. The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Matching catering staff uniforms, a carefully timed diversion, and quick exit strategy. Years of heists had taught them that children's parties were a goldmine of opportunity—parents too overwhelmed to notice two extra "staff" members slipping through the crowd. She rolled up the blueprints, already imagining the haul. Another perfect score was about to go down.