Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7R8NXTSK4YXGKSGCH7F97

The linoleum of Mabel’s Diner stuck to Molly’s scuffed boots at 7 a.m., the air thick with burnt bacon and the distant gurgle of a faulty soda machine. She picked at crumbs of a stale pancake, a crumpled children’s party invite glitter-glued to the Formica table between them—Leo Vanderbilt’s 7th Birthday: Princess Castle Bash, Backyard Extravaganza, 2 P.M. Sharp. Her leather gloves, cracked at the knuckles, rested beside a half-empty coffee cup, while Bill slammed his own mug down hard enough to make a sugar shaker rattle. “Finally got the invite,” Bill said, leaning in so his bandaged finger—leftover from the grocery store cookie jar fiasco—brushed the glitter. “I’ve been casing the backyard all week.” Molly’s eye twitched. “Casing? You tripped over a garden gnome and ran from a squirrel yesterday.” She unfolded a crumpled sketch of the yard, marking the present table tucked under an oak tree with a pencil. The table, she’d heard, held diamond-encrusted action figures and a miniature gold tiara, gifts from Leo’s billionaire grandfather. “Fair,” Bill mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “But I checked the bouncy castle blind spot—parents don’t look there when their kids are screaming about slide races.” “Did you check the face painter?” Molly asked, tapping a splotchy circle on the sketch labeled Face Painter Cart. “She’s parked right beside the present table’s side access.” Bill froze. “Forgot that. The lady with the neon rainbow brush set?” Molly sighed, tucking a strand of raven hair behind her ear. She slid a tattered sketchbook across the table, pages filled with scrawled notes: Mimosa Bar (Parent Distraction), Pool House Alley (Escape Route), Oak Tree Branch (Sack Drop). She’d scouted the branch the night before—low enough to clamber up, sturdy enough to hold a burlap sack stuffed with the encrusted toys. “Here’s the plan,” Molly said, her voice sharp. “You dress as a clown, set off the piñata an hour early to send the kids screaming. That’ll yank the parents from the present table and the face painter to calm the chaos.” “Clown?” Bill yelped, nearly knocking over the sugar shaker. “I tripped over a balloon animal at the last clown gig—landed in a tub of cotton candy. My hair was pink for a week.” “Diamond-encrusted toy soldiers,” Molly reminded him, tapping the invite’s fine print: Special Gifts from Grandfather Vanderbilt. “Each one’s worth more than your last three heists combined. The clown nose’s in the storage unit—we grab it on the way to the sack.” Bill fidgeted with a plastic fork, the bandage on his finger catching the light. He remembered the cookie jar fail—he’d broken a window and only escaped with a jar of chocolate chips. Molly slid a pair of oversized sunglasses across the table, noting the party’s security guard was a retired mailman who napped by the pool house. She checked her watch, the leather strap frayed at the edges, and gestured to the door where a rusted pickup idled in the parking lot. “The party starts at 2 p.m.,” she said. “We hit the storage unit at 10, grab the burlap sack lined with bubble wrap to muffle the toy clinks, then position ourselves in the alley behind the pool house by 1:30. No balloon animal detours—this time, we walk away with the goods.” She folded the invite into her coat pocket, the glitter leaving a faint trail on her dark fabric, and stood, the linoleum peeling from her boots as she headed for the door.