Molly examined the birthday banner through her binoculars while Bill nervously tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. The suburban house burst with balloons and streamers, a fortress of innocent celebration they were about to violate for profit. Bill cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His conscience had been bothering him since they'd accepted this ridiculous job. Molly lowered the binoculars and studied the party's chaotic rhythm. Children zigzagged across the lawn wielding foam swords while exhausted parents clutched coffee cups like lifelines. The present table sat magnificently unguarded near the patio, wrapped boxes glittering in the afternoon sun. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through their client's specifications. Apparently, someone's ex-spouse had extremely expensive taste in children's gifts, and revenge required intercepting them before little Timmy could tear into that limited edition whatever-it-was. Bill drummed his fingers faster. "This feels wrong." "Two grand says otherwise." "Still wrong." Molly pocketed her phone and checked her watch. The clown was scheduled to arrive in ten minutes, which would provide the perfect distraction. She reached for the door handle, then hesitated. Bill was right, but rent was righter.