Under the sickly glow of a flickering streetlamp, Molly squinted at the blueprint of the Johnson’s suburban fortress spread across the cracked sidewalk. The faint sound of balloons popping and childlike laughter drifted from the cul-de-sac, where the birthday party was in full swing. Bill crouched beside her, balancing a half-eaten donut in one hand. “Are you sure this is the best target? A kids’ party seems—” Molly cut him off with a sharp glance. “Easy targets, Bill. Parents distracted by sugar and chaos. Plus, presents galore, wrapped in shiny paper begging to be ripped away.” Her finger traced the route past the kiddie pool, through a gap in the hedges. Bill wiped frosting off his chin. “Right, distraction. What’s the plan?” “Simple. You cause a diversion near the punch bowl—maybe knock over a cake, draw the adults’ attention. I slip inside and grab the goods.” She wiggled her fingers like a pickpocketing maestro. Bill grinned, the glaze of a donut fueling his enthusiasm. “Cake chaos, got it. And if the little gremlins catch us?” “We dress up as clowns. No one suspects clowns at a kids’ party.” Bill chuckled, already plotting their sugary crime spree. Someone was about to have the worst birthday ever.