Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HT4552DGVM8KW1TC539JY

Molly and Bill crouched behind the hedge outside Number Twelve, where balloons bobbed like overeager sentries and a papier-mâché dragon guarded the gate with the vacant confidence of school craft. Inside, sugar-drunk children ricocheted through the garden while adults laughed the desperate laugh of people trapped beside a hired magician. On the patio sat the treasure: a mountain of bright presents, glinting under a banner that read HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY, OLIVER, as if naming the victim made the crime ruder. Bill adjusted his flat cap and peered through the leaves. “We go in smiling.” Molly checked the timing on her watch, then the size of the cake, then Bill, in that order. “You never smile naturally. You look taxidermied.” A clown on stilts wandered past the gate, folding balloons into improbable dogs and one extremely convincing ferret. Molly’s eyes narrowed with professional admiration. The plan had seemed elegant in the van: Bill would distract the parents by pretending to be the entertainment, while Molly liberated the presents into a sack labeled MINI GOLF SUPPLIES. Elegant plans, she knew, usually ended with somebody in custard. Bill straightened, breathed deeply, and stepped toward the gate just as the magician inside shouted for a volunteer and every child turned, hungry for chaos.