The ballroom of the Grand Marquee Hotel was a minefield of glitter, balloons, and the kind of sugary chaos that made Molly’s teeth ache just from looking at it. She crouched behind a towering cake shaped like a unicorn—because of *course* it was a unicorn—adjusting the itchy elf costume she’d swiped from a department store mannequin. The thing smelled like synthetic joy and regret. Bill, dressed as a slightly lopsided clown (his own fault for refusing to let her pick his disguise), wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief that may or may not have been stolen from a funeral home. “You’re sure the kid’s parents won’t notice us?” he whispered, voice muffled by the oversized red nose he’d glued on crooked. Molly side-eyed him. “Bill, we’re two adults in a room full of six-year-olds. The only way they *won’t* notice us is if we set ourselves on fire and call it a magic trick.” She nodded toward the mountain of gifts piled under a banner that read *HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIMMY (probably)*. “Focus. We grab the presents, stuff them in the piñata, and waltz out before the cake’s cut. Simple.” Bill adjusted his clown collar, which was already unraveling. “What if someone asks why the piñata’s moving?” “Then you tell them it’s haunted. Kids love that stuff.” Molly reached into her elf boot and pulled out a handful of candy-shaped lock picks. “Now shut up and help me disable the *‘No Grown-Ups Allowed’* sign before I start questioning why I let you talk me into this.”