The van smelled like stale coffee and regret, which Molly had come to recognize as the official scent of their operations. She spread the hand-drawn map across the dashboard, squinting at Bill's artwork. "Is that supposed to be a bouncy castle or a tumor?" she asked. "It's the bouncy castle. The tumor is over here, by the refreshment table. That's the piñata." "Why does the piñata have teeth?" Bill snatched the map back defensively. "It's a dinosaur piñata. Dinosaurs have teeth. Can we focus please?" Molly held up her hands in surrender. She'd worked with Bill for three years now, ever since the disastrous cheese museum incident, and she'd learned that criticizing his artistic abilities only delayed the inevitable. The man could crack a safe in forty seconds but couldn't draw a straight line with a ruler and divine intervention. "Fine. Walk me through it again." "Okay, so the party starts at two. Twenty-three kids, ages six to eight, plus parents. The presents will be stacked on this table here." He jabbed at something that looked like a melting rectangle. "We go in through the back gate at two-fifteen, during the magic show." "A magic show? Seriously?" "The Amazing Roberto. He's been working the birthday circuit for fifteen years. His dove died in 2019 and he never replaced it, so now he just pulls scarves from places scarves shouldn't be." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "And we're sure this is worth it?" "Mrs. Henderson's kid is turning seven. You know who Mrs. Henderson is married to?" "Enlighten me." "Gerald Henderson. Hedge fund. Their friends don't give gifts from Target, Molly. We're talking high-end electronics, jewelry, probably enough cash in cards to fund our retirement." "We're robbing children." "We're robbing rich children. There's a moral distinction there somewhere." She couldn't argue with the logic, mostly because there wasn't any logic to argue with. Bill operated on vibes and hunches, and somehow it usually worked out. The cheese museum had been the exception, not the rule. "What's our exit strategy?" Bill grinned and pulled out two folded pieces of fabric. He shook them out with a flourish, revealing matching purple polo shirts with a cartoon cupcake logo. "We're catering staff. Cupcake Dreams. They're bringing dessert at two-thirty, so we blend in, load the presents into catering boxes, and walk right out. Nobody questions people carrying boxes at a party." "Did you actually order cupcakes?" "Two hundred of them. Red velvet." Molly stared at him. "That's genuinely the most professional thing you've ever done." "I also got us matching visors." "And there it is." She took the polo shirt and held it up against herself. It was two sizes too large and smelled faintly of mothballs. Outside the van, suburban paradise gleamed in the afternoon sun, completely unaware that chaos was coming dressed in purple and armed with buttercream.