Molly drummed her fingers on the coffee shop table, her half-eaten scone forgotten as she studied the birthday party invitation she'd swiped from the mailbox. Bill sat across from her, methodically stirring his fourth sugar packet into his already cavity-inducing coffee. "A bounce house, Bill. They're getting a bounce house," Molly said, tapping the glossy paper. "Do you know what that means?" "That some lucky eight-year-olds are gonna have sore knees tomorrow?" "No, you idiot. It means all the adults will be outside watching their precious angels jump around while the presents sit unguarded inside." The invitation's cartoon dinosaurs seemed to mock them with their cheerful grins. Little Tommy was turning eight, and according to the rather detailed schedule his mother had included, there would be exactly forty-seven minutes of bounce house time between the magic show and the cake cutting. Bill leaned forward, his chair creaking. "I don't know, Mol. Stealing from kids? Seems a bit..." He made a face like he'd just bit into a lemon. "Oh, please. These are Riverside kids. Their presents probably cost more than our rent. Besides, their parents have insurance." Molly pulled out her notebook, already sketching the layout of the house based on the real estate listing she'd found online. "What if we get caught? I'm not going back to jail over a bunch of Legos and PlayStation games." "That's why we're not going in through the front door, genius." She turned the notebook toward him. "Look, the laundry room window faces the side yard. While everyone's out front watching their darling children get concussions, we slip in, grab the goods, and we're out before they serve the first slice of cake." Bill scratched his stubble, leaving a smear of sugar on his chin. "And you're sure the alarm system's offline?" "Called the security company pretending to be Mrs. Anderson. They're doing system maintenance that exact day. Sometimes the universe just hands you these things." "I still think this is nuts." Molly closed her notebook with a snap. "What's nuts is passing up an easy score. We're talking forty kids, minimum. That's forty presents, probably half of them envelope-stuffed gift cards. We fence the electronics, pawn the toys in the next county, and we're eating steak instead of scones for the next month." Bill sighed, pushing his empty coffee cup away. "Fine. But if we hear one kid crying, I'm out." "Please. These brats probably get new toys every week. We're teaching them a valuable lesson about materialism." Molly gathered her things, shoving the invitation into her pocket. "Now come on, we need to go shopping for children's party clothes. You can't show up looking like a discount hitman." "I like this jacket," Bill muttered, following her toward the door. "It has blood on the sleeve." "It's ketchup." "That doesn't make it better."