Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WMC492AVSSK6QKCVHT094

Molly spread the hand-drawn blueprint across the sticky table at Denny's, knocking over Bill's orange juice in the process. The map, rendered in colored pencil on the back of a placemat from another restaurant, depicted the suburban home of one Kevin Fletcher, age seven, whose birthday party was scheduled for Saturday at two o'clock. Bill dabbed at the juice creeping toward his lap and studied the blueprint with the seriousness of a man who had not, three weeks ago, gotten his belt loop caught on a fence during a botched warehouse job and dangled there until morning. "Walk me through it again," he said, pulling a soggy napkin from beneath the map. Molly tapped a purple circle near the back of the house. "This is the bouncy castle. They're inflating it at one thirty. Every kid at the party will be on that thing like flies on a carcass. That's our window." "And the presents?" "Front living room. Piled on a table next to a life-size cardboard cutout of some dinosaur from a cartoon I don't recognize. We go in through the garage. Kevin's dad always leaves it cracked because he smokes out there and his wife doesn't know." Bill leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms. His leather jacket creaked in a way he clearly thought was intimidating but mostly sounded like a sad balloon. "How do you know so much about this family?" he asked. "I'm in Kevin's mom's book club," Molly said without shame. "You joined a book club to case a seven-year-old's house?" "I joined a book club because I enjoy reading, Bill. The casing was a bonus." The waitress refilled their coffees and glanced at the blueprint. Molly flipped it over, revealing the placemat side, which advertised a kids' meal called the Buckaroo Burger. The waitress moved on, unimpressed. Bill rubbed his temples. The last three jobs Molly had planned went sideways in spectacular fashion. There was the pet store incident. The museum debacle. The thing at the church they had both agreed never to speak of again. But presents from a seven-year-old's birthday party represented a return to fundamentals. Low security. High reward. Probably a lot of gift cards. "What about the clown?" he asked. Molly's expression darkened. "What clown?" "There's always a clown, Molly. You never account for the clown." She hadn't accounted for a clown. This was evident from the way her left eye twitched and her hand moved instinctively toward the pepper spray in her purse. Clowns were an unpredictable variable. They roamed freely, had access to all areas of the party, and worst of all, they were already in disguise, which meant they were essentially working the same job from the other side. "We'll handle the clown if there's a clown," she said firmly. "That's not a plan." "It's a philosophy. Plans come later. Finish your eggs." Bill finished his eggs. He had a bad feeling about Saturday, but then again, he always had a bad feeling, and he was almost always right.