Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the sticky diner table, knocking over a salt shaker in the process. The blueprint, if you could call crayon on a napkin a blueprint, showed the layout of the Henderson house in alarming detail. She had spent three hours at the open house last Sunday pretending to be interested in buying the place, all while memorizing the floor plan and helping herself to their cheese platter. Bill studied the map, turning it sideways, then upside down, squinting at what appeared to be a dinosaur but was actually the family dog. "We go in through the back during musical chairs," Molly whispered. "Everyone will be distracted." Bill scratched his chin. The party was scheduled for Saturday at two. Fifteen six-year-olds hopped up on sugar and chaos. It was either the perfect cover or a nightmare scenario. He was leaning toward nightmare. "What about the clown?" he asked. "I'll handle the clown." She said it with such cold certainty that Bill felt a shiver run through him. He didn't ask follow-up questions. Some things were better left unknown, especially when they involved a woman who had once outrun a mall cop in stilettos without breaking a sweat.