Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPC6SBCEW3YV9H3X54J7EZ

The neon glow of the *Dazzle & Delight Party Emporium* sign flickered like a dying firefly as Molly adjusted her oversized clown wig in the rearview mirror. Bill sat beside her, methodically peeling the wrapper off a stolen lollipop he’d swiped from the last job—a baptism, if anyone asked. “You sure this is the right move?” Bill sucked on the lollipop, the sticky red syrup clinging to his stubble. “Last time we hit a kids’ thing, you got glued to a piñata by a six-year-old with a grudge.” Molly shot him a look. “That was a *quinceañera*, and she was *fifteen*. Besides, this isn’t just any party. This is the *Mayor’s Little Angel* extravaganza. You see the guest list? Every rich parent in town’s dropping off a present that costs more than our last getaway car.” Bill squinted at the invitation they’d “borrowed” from the mayor’s recycling bin. “Says here the theme is *Under the Sea*. You planning to wear flippers?” “No, *you’re* wearing flippers.” Molly tossed a bedazzled mermaid tail onto his lap. “You’re the distraction. I’m going in as the face painter.” Bill held up the tail like it was a dead fish. “I am *not* prancing around singing *Part of Your World* while you clean out the gift table.” “You don’t have to sing. Just… exist tragically. Cry a little. Kids love a sad mermaid.” “Molly.” “Fine. Be the octopus. More legs, less commitment.” Bill groaned, but he knew resistance was futile. Molly had that look—the one that said she’d already picked out their next fake identities and the tropical island they’d flee to if this went south. Again. “What’s the play?” he asked, resigning himself to his fate. “Simple. I go in, paint a few faces, ‘accidentally’ knock over the present table in a *tragic* face-paint-related incident—” “You’re not knocking over a table full of iPads and designer dolls in front of thirty sugar-high kids.” “—while *you* ‘help’ me clean up by shoving everything into the *emergency diaper bag* I swiped from BuyBuy Baby.” Bill blinked. “You stole a diaper bag?” “It’s got *pockets*, Bill. And no one questions a woman with a diaper bag. It’s like a briefcase, but with more societal trust.” “What if someone *needs* a diaper?” Molly pulled a single, suspiciously large diaper from her purse. “I’ve got one. For emergencies.” “That’s a *towel*.” “Semantics.” She checked her watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the *Bubble Princess* shows up. You remember the signal?” Bill sighed. “You scream *‘Oh no, the glitter cannon!’* and I cause a diversion by setting something on fire.” “*Almost* setting something on fire. We’re thieves, not arsonists.” “Yet.” Molly ignored him, adjusting the fake freckles she’d dotted across her nose. “Just don’t let any kid hug you. Last time, one of them found your switchblade.” “That was *one time*.” “And the time before that.” “That was a *fork*.” Molly grinned. “Either way, today’s the day we finally afford that timeshare in Boca.” Bill eyed the mermaid tail. “Or we end up in jail, explaining to a judge why a grown man was crying in a sequin leotard.” Molly patted his shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”