Molly pressed herself against the wall of Tina Trumble’s Inflatable Wonderland, peeking around the corner at a six-foot-tall giraffe made of balloons. Bill crouched next to her, clutching a rolled-up blueprint of the venue—scribbled with circles, arrows, and what appeared to be mustard. “Remind me again, why are we targeting children’s parties? Didn’t we agree we’d do jewel heists?” Bill whispered, his voice itchy with anxiety. Molly flashed him a grin. “You ever tried fencing a diamond in this town? Too much heat. But party favors? You can sell a brand-new Lego set faster than a guy named Vinny can say ‘receipt.’ Look.” She pointed through the window at a pile of gifts stacked higher than a four-year-old. “That’s three hundred quid in chocolates alone.” Bill frowned as a man in a clown suit juggled rubber chickens near the gift table. “I hate clowns. You ever see their eyes? There’s nothing behind them. Just pure circus.” “The plan, Bill. Focus.” He unrolled the blueprint on the grass. “We go in as entertainers. There’s the magician slot—some bloke named Sir Sparkle lost his keys or something. We swap in, do a few tricks, then nab the goods.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Magic? I don’t even know card tricks. Last time I tried, I set my sleeve on fire.” “Relax. I picked up a few bits off YouTube.” He fanned a deck of cards, dropping half in the process. “Ta-da!” She scooped the cards up. “Your magic might need actual magic. But we can improvise, right? Worst case, you distract ‘em with your juggling and I slip the presents into the laundry bins by the kitchen exit.” Bill pursed his lips. “Laundry bins?” “Party gets messy. Trust me, I’ve worked this demographic.” Molly grinned at a memory. “Besides, who’s gonna notice a mountain of gift-wrapped boxes going out among the dirty napkins?” He glanced through the window again, watching the children shrieking as they pinned a tail on a suspiciously grumpy looking donkey. “What about the kids? Kids have… senses. They can sniff out guilt.” “Not if we’re in disguise. Let me see your smile.” Molly squinted at him. Bill attempted a grin; he looked less joyful, more constipated. “We’ll work on it,” she muttered. “Okay, let’s synchronize. We walk in at three p.m., ten-minute magic routine, five-minute ‘juggling duel’—while you drop a smoke bomb, I stuff presents in the bin, kitchen door out, and back here before they’re blowing out the candles.” Bill’s hands trembled as he picked a bit of tinsel from his pocket. “And what if some sugar-crazed kid gets in the way?” “Bring extra balloon animals. Kids are easily distracted by something that can be popped.” A tiny dog barked from somewhere inside. Bill flinched. “You sure you want to do this? I mean, it’s not exactly The Italian Job… It’s more like The Sesame Street Job.” Molly pressed a plastic clown nose into his palm. “Bill, you want to pay the rent or not? Stick close. If you see a clown, just smile and do not—under any circumstances—accept any pies.” Bill straightened, looking at her with admiration and terror. “Let’s do it then.” He took a deep breath. “For Lego and profit.” Molly grinned. “That’s the spirit. Let’s go make some birthday wishes come true—for us.”