Molly pressed her face against the community center window, counting heads. "Seventeen kids. Maybe eighteen if you count the one crying under the table." "That's a lot of witnesses," Bill whispered, adjusting his fake mustache nervously. "They're six years old. Who's going to believe them?" Molly pulled out a crude map drawn on a napkin. "Presents are in the back corner. We go in during the piñata." "The piñata?" "Maximum chaos. Candy everywhere. Screaming children. Perfect cover." She checked her watch. "We've got four minutes." Bill peered through the window. "Is that a clown?" "Oh no." "What do you mean, oh no?" "I hate clowns." Molly's eye twitched. "You rob banks for a living, but you're scared of clowns?" "Everyone's scared of clowns, Bill. That's just science." Inside, someone started singing. The piñata descended from the ceiling, a purple unicorn spinning lazily. "That's our cue." Molly pulled on a party hat. "Remember, act natural." "We're two adults crashing a six-year-old's birthday party." "Exactly. Divorced parents. Works every time." They opened the door to chaos.