The warehouse smelled like failure and old cheese, which Molly supposed was appropriate given their current circumstances. She spread the hand-drawn map across the overturned milk crate and squinted at Bill's artistic interpretation of the Henderson residence. "Is that supposed to be a dog or a couch?" she asked, tapping a brown blob near what might have been a back door. Bill leaned over her shoulder, his breath carrying hints of the gas station burrito he'd called lunch. "That's the bouncy castle. Obviously." It was not obvious. Nothing about this plan was obvious, including why two grown adults with perfectly serviceable criminal records were targeting little Timmy Henderson's eighth birthday party. But the intel had been solid. The Hendersons were loaded, and their precious angel had specifically requested that all guests bring gifts worth at least two hundred dollars. The invitation had actually specified this. In bold font. With underlining. Molly pulled out her notebook and reviewed the timeline. The party started at two. The magician arrived at two-thirty. The cake came out at three-fifteen. They had exactly forty-five minutes of peak distraction between the rabbit trick and the sugar rush to locate the present table, neutralize any threats, and extract the merchandise. "What about security?" she asked. "One grandmother stationed by the gift table. Partial hearing loss in her left ear. Knitting addiction. I figure you can distract her with some yarn-related conversation while I load up the van." "And the parents?" Bill grinned, revealing the gap where he'd lost a tooth during the infamous aquarium incident. "Dad's manning the grill. Mom's apparently having some kind of crisis about the balloon arch not matching her Pinterest vision. Neither one's gonna notice two extra adults at a party with forty kids running around hopped up on juice boxes." Molly had to admit the plan had a certain elegant simplicity. They'd blend in as parents, mingle with the suburban crowd, and walk out with enough wrapped presents to fund their retirement. Or at least their rent for the next three months. "Costumes?" she asked. Bill produced two polo shirts from his duffel bag. One was salmon colored with a tiny whale embroidered on the chest. The other featured horizontal stripes that made Molly's eyes water. "We look like we summer in Connecticut." "That's the idea." She held the striped monstrosity against her chest and sighed. They'd robbed banks. They'd stolen cars. They'd once lifted an entire collection of rare stamps from a museum in broad daylight. And now here they were, preparing to infiltrate a children's birthday party in clothes that screamed recreational tennis. "The things we do for money," she muttered. "Could be worse. Could be a clown-themed party." Molly shuddered at the memory of the Fitzgerald job. "Don't even joke about that." She folded the map and tucked it into her pocket. Tomorrow at two, they'd become Mr. and Mrs. Nobody from down the street.