Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HGGJKF1MD8HWSA98MDPS8

Molly spread a crayon-smeared blueprint across the café table and pinned the corners with sugar dispensers. Outside, rain glazed the streetlights and turned the alley into a wet ribbon. Bill leaned in, hat dripping, trying to look sinister while wearing a balloon vendor’s apron he’d stolen for inspiration. “It’s a child’s birthday party, Bill, not the Mint.” “That’s what makes it genius,” Bill whispered. “Nobody expects organized crime near a bouncy castle.” Molly tapped the page. “Entry here, through the side gate, disguised as entertainers.” “I can juggle,” Bill said. “You can drop fruit in sequence.” “That is an unkind definition of juggling.” She slid a paper napkin toward him. On it she had drawn a clown with a frown and the words NO MORALS, NO PROBLEM. Bill studied it with professional offense. “I’m not wearing face paint.” “You wore a fake beard for six weeks.” “That was dignity. Clowning is a line.” The waitress arrived with tea and stared at the blueprint, where Molly had labeled the gift table X MARKS THE STUFF. Molly smiled blandly until the waitress retreated. “The presents,” Molly said, “will be stacked near the cake. Standard parental error. They’ll all be distracted by sugar and a man in a dinosaur suit.” “I could be the dinosaur.” “You move like a folding chair. No, you’re on diversion.” Bill sat back. “Dangerous?” “Humiliating.” He considered this. “Go on.” “You lead the children in a treasure hunt around the garden.” Bill blinked. “I’m to distract thirty sticky civilians with clues?” “You read from cards. ‘Look beneath the slide,’ ‘Seek ye by the paddling pool.’ Simple.” “I don’t like the ‘ye.’ It gives the game pirate energy.” “Fine. We’ll make it educational.” Bill lowered his voice. “And while I’m being climbed like a tree?” “I load the presents into the catering van.” “Stolen?” “Borrowed. From caterers. Relax, they’re very resilient people.” The café door banged open and a gust carried in the smell of wet wool. Molly traced routes with a teaspoon, cool as a general plotting a war over sponge cake. “There’s one complication,” she said. “There’s always one complication.” “The host has hired a magician.” Bill groaned. “I hate magicians. Smug men in shiny shoes doing crimes with applause.” “He’s the schedule anchor. Once he starts pulling scarves out of poultry or whatever, parents will bunch near the patio. That gives me four minutes.” “Four minutes to steal an entire mountain of presents?” “Bill, I once removed a grandfather clock from a townhouse during a piano recital.” “Yes, but this loot rattles.” “Then we pad the van.” “With what?” Bill looked down at his apron. “Balloons?” Molly’s eyes lit. “Actually, yes.” He straightened, pleased despite himself. “At last, my gifts are appreciated.” She leaned closer. “Timing is everything. At two-fifteen, cake. At two-twenty, magician. At two-twenty-one, you begin the hunt.” “And if a parent asks who hired me?” “Say, ‘Mrs. Canterbury.’ There’s always a Mrs. Canterbury at these things.” “There isn’t.” “There feels like there should be.” Bill rubbed his chin. “What about the dog?” Molly paused. “What dog?” “The huge one in the invitation photo. Wearing a bow tie. He looked judgmental.” She narrowed her eyes. “Dogs do not concern me.” “That dog concerns me. That dog has seen men fail.” Rain ticked at the window. Molly folded the blueprint with a decisive snap and tucked it into her coat. “We are stealing toys from children, Bill. Let’s not be rattled by a Labrador in formalwear.” Bill rose, draining his tea. “For the record, that sentence is why you’re the mastermind and I’m the employee.” “Partner,” Molly said. He smiled. “That’s nicer. Still not wearing face paint.” “You are if the dog recognizes you.” Bill sighed toward the ceiling. “Crime has become very theatrical.” “And profitable,” Molly said, sweeping past him toward the door. “Now come on. We need balloons, clue cards, and a completely unconvincing moral compass.”