The blueprints of the Johnson residence were spread across the van’s dashboard, looking more like a treasure map than a suburban floor plan. Molly tapped a gloved finger on the diagram of the living room. “Okay, the party’s in full swing. Our target is the present mountain by the fireplace.” Bill peered through binoculars, his brow furrowed. “It’s not a mountain, Mol. It’s a glorified anthill wrapped in unicorn paper.” “Semantics. Every juice box and bag of chips is a potential alibi. We blend in, grab the goods, and vanish.” “And how exactly do we ‘blend in’? I look like a disgruntled accountant who lost his tie.” Molly tossed a bright, cone-shaped hat at him. “You’re now Uncle Billy, the slightly creepy but generous relative. I’m your wife, Brenda.” “Brenda? But my Brenda is a Corgi!” “Precisely. You’ll be so distracted missing her, no one will suspect a thing. Now put on the hat, Uncle Billy. The piñata awaits.”