The backroom of *Sugarplum’s Sweet Shoppe* smelled like stale cotton candy and regret, which, Molly decided, was just the right ambiance for planning a heist. She kicked her boots up onto the wobbly card table, sending a stack of napkins fluttered to the floor. Bill didn’t even glance up from the blueprints he’d stolen—*borrowed*—from the party planner’s office. His fingers traced the layout of *Bounce & Sparkle’s 8th Annual Piñata Extravaganza* like a man memorizing the escape routes of a bank vault. “You’re sure this is the place?” Molly asked, swiping a half-melted lollipop from the table and popping it into her mouth. “Because last time you said *‘this is the place,’* we ended up in a retirement home’s bingo night, and I still have nightmares about Mrs. Henderson’s dentures.” Bill finally looked up, his expression the kind of patient suffering usually reserved for saintly martyrs and overworked kindergarten teachers. “Molly, the *Piñata Extravaganza* is the single most concentrated source of unguarded, high-value loot in this city. We’re talking iPads, LEGO sets still in the box, and—” he tapped the blueprint dramatically, “—a *limited-edition, autographed, gold-plated My Little Pony*.” Molly choked on the lollipop. “You’re telling me some kid’s getting a *gold-plated* My Little Pony for their birthday?” “Not anymore,” Bill said, grinning like a man who’d just been handed the keys to a candy factory. “Because we’re getting it.” She leaned forward, squinting at the blueprint. “Okay, but how? This place is gonna be crawling with parents, balloon animals, and at least three clowns. You know I have a *policy* about clowns.” “Clowns are a distraction,” Bill said, waving a hand. “And parents are even better. They’re too busy taking photos of their kids face-planting into cake to notice two *highly professional* party guests slipping into the gift table area.” Molly raised an eyebrow. “You want us to *blend in*? At a kids’ party?” “Exactly. We’ll be the *cool* older siblings. The *mysterious* babysitters. The *charming* new neighbors who *definitely* aren’t casing the joint.” She groaned, flopping back in her chair. “I don’t do charming. I do *menacing*. Last time I tried to be charming, I accidentally told a little old lady her perm looked like a dead hedgehog.” Bill ignored her, pulling a duffel bag from under the table. “I’ve got costumes. You’re gonna be *Princess Sparkletoes*.” Molly’s eye twitched. “I am *not* wearing a tutu.” “It’s not a tutu, it’s a *strategic distraction*.” He tossed her a sparkly pink leotard. “You’ll be the life of the party. Meanwhile, I’ll be *Uncle Barry*, the *slightly awkward but lovable* family friend who *just happens* to have a *very* large diaper bag.” She held up the leotard between two fingers like it was a dead rat. “Uncle Barry gets to carry the loot, and I have to *twirl*?” “Teamwork,” Bill said, already pulling on a suspiciously realistic fake mustache. “You twirl, I lift. We’re in and out before the piñata even hits the ground.” Molly sighed, defeated. “Fine. But if I have to wear this, you’re buying me a *real* pony when this is over.” Bill zipped up the duffel bag with a grin. “Deal. But only if it’s *not* gold-plated.”