Molly spread the blueprints across the greasy diner table, nearly knocking over Bill's fourth cup of coffee. "Alright, here's the layout. Kitchen entrance here, living room here, and the bouncy castle will be stationed right in the backyard." "Why do I need to know about the bouncy castle?" "Because that's where little Timmy Henderson's birthday presents will be stockpiled. Premium location. The mother's a Pinterest fanatic—everything will be displayed on a table right beside the castle for maximum visual impact." Bill squinted at the papers. "These aren't blueprints. This is a crayon drawing." "I had to infiltrate via playdate. Do you know how suspicious it looks when a thirty-four-year-old woman asks for graph paper at a six-year-old's house?" "More suspicious than pretending to have a kid?" "I borrowed my nephew. Perfectly legitimate." "Your nephew's twenty-three." "Different nephew. Focus, Bill. The party starts at two. We go in at two-forty-five." "During peak cake time?" "Exactly. Every adult will be either cutting, serving, or desperately preventing frosting from hitting their carpet. That's when you create the diversion." "Which is?" "You're Bubbles the Clown." Bill's coffee mug froze halfway to his lips. "Absolutely not." "I already paid the deposit on the costume." "Molly, I swear to God—" "Relax. While you're making balloon animals, I'll slip through the kitchen, grab the presents, and load them into the van. The real clown doesn't arrive until three-thirty. We'll be gone before anyone notices." "What kind of criminal mastermind targets a kids' party?" "The kind who knows Timmy's dad owns three tech startups. Half those presents will be electronics. The other half will be those fancy European wooden toys that resell for hundreds online." "This is a new low, even for us." "Says the man who tried to rob a golf cart." "That golf cart belonged to a federal judge! This is literally taking candy from babies." "Technically, it's taking expensive age-appropriate developmental toys from babies. Completely different moral territory." Bill rubbed his temples. "What's my balloon animal repertoire supposed to be?" "I YouTubed it. You can make a snake, which is just a long balloon. Maybe attempt a dog. It's basically a snake with more twists." "I hate clowns." "Everyone hates clowns. That's why it's perfect. Parents will be so focused on whether you're traumatizing their children, they won't notice me hauling away little Timmy's new bike." "He's getting a bike?" "Electric bike. Twelve hundred retail." Bill considered this. "Does the costume come with those big shoes?" "Size twenty-two." "I wear a nine." "So you'll walk carefully. Look, do you want to keep eating ramen for dinner or do you want to feast on the tears of overprivileged suburban children?" "When you put it like that, it still sounds terrible." "But profitable. Terribly profitable." Bill drained his coffee and stood up. "If I get attacked by a pack of six-year-olds, I'm billing you for therapy." "Deal. Now let's go practice your balloon skills. I bought a hundred-pack, and we're not leaving until you can make something that vaguely resembles an animal." They left together, Molly clutching her crayon blueprints, Bill already dreading the squeaky sounds of twisting latex that would haunt his dreams.