Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZTV761TKWAXM9D50XWW04D

Molly spread the blueprints across the card table, weighing the corners with half-empty cans of grape soda. The floor plan of the Peterson residence looked deceptively innocent, all sunrooms and mudrooms and a suspicious number of bathrooms for one family. Bill leaned over her shoulder, chewing a licorice rope with the grim focus of a man defusing a bomb. The party was Saturday. Tommy Peterson was turning seven, and according to the invitation Molly had steamed open at the mailbox, the theme was pirates. This detail delighted her enormously and troubled Bill deeply. Pirates meant eyepatches, and eyepatches meant depth perception problems, and depth perception problems meant he might trip over a toddler. "I hate toddlers," Bill muttered. Molly ignored him. She circled the back patio with a red marker, then drew an arrow toward the gift table, which she had labeled TREASURE in block letters. Thirty-two children had RSVP'd. Thirty-two children meant thirty-two gifts, minimum, and wealthy suburbanites always overspent out of competitive guilt. She tapped the marker against her teeth, calculating. A bounce house provided cover. A clown provided distraction. A piñata provided chaos. Everything a working criminal could ask for, really, and cake besides.