Run: 2026-07-09-01KX4160S6GWNBFRVNMWXZTQPD

Molly spread the crayon map across the café table. “Right. The party starts at two. We enter at two fifteen.” “Why late?” Bill asked. “Because punctual adults get jobs. Late adults get forgiven.” “What are we disguised as?” “Children’s entertainers.” Bill stared at her. “Doing what?” “Magic.” “I can’t do magic.” “You made six thousand pounds disappear last February.” “That was accounting.” “Same principle, less applause.” Bill examined the map. “Where are the presents?” “Dining room. Thirty-seven parcels, arranged beneath a cardboard castle.” “Thirty-seven?” “Twins. Competitive grandparents.” “Security?” “One Labrador, one suspicious grandmother, and a seven-year-old called Finlay who asks follow-up questions.” “The grandmother worries me.” “She should. Former headmistress.” “No alarms?” “The birthday boy has a baby monitor, but unless the presents start crying, we’re fine.” “How do we enter?” “Front door. Confidence is the skeleton key of society.” “And if they ask who hired us?” “We say Trevor.” “Who’s Trevor?” “Every badly organized party has a Trevor.” A waiter placed two coffees down. Molly waited until he left. Bill whispered, “Then what?” “I perform card tricks in the garden. You slip inside, load the presents into laundry sacks, and exit through the kitchen.” “Why am I stealing while you get applause?” “Because my rabbit costume has no pockets.” “You’re wearing a rabbit costume?” “Magician’s rabbit. Nobody suspects the rabbit.” “People absolutely suspect a six-foot rabbit carrying playing cards.” “I’m five foot eight.” “The ears count.” Bill traced the escape route. “Kitchen door leads to the driveway.” “Correct.” “Past the bouncy castle.” “Correct.” “Past twelve children.” “Correct.” “Carrying sacks.” “You’ll say they contain balloons.” “Balloons don’t clunk.” “Educational balloons do.” “What does that mean?” “It means keep walking.” Bill frowned. “What kind of presents are we expecting?” “Remote-control cars. Tablets. Building sets. Possibly a karaoke machine.” “No cash?” “They’re eight, Bill. Their money laundering is rudimentary.” “What about wrapping paper? It tears.” “Handle gently.” “What if a child sees me?” “Tell them you’re Santa.” “In June?” “Southern Hemisphere Santa.” “Will that work?” “Children believe in talking pigs. Stay calm.” A gust lifted the corner of the map. Bill pinned it with a sugar bowl. “What’s phase three?” “Van at the alley. We drive to the lockup, unwrap everything, and discover thirty-seven personalized jigsaw puzzles.” “You didn’t check the registry?” “I checked it. Half the guests ignored it.” “What was on it?” “Books, craft kits, and a donation to the otter sanctuary.” Bill leaned back. “We’re robbing otter people?” “We’re not robbing otters.” “Morally adjacent.” “Focus.” “I’m focused on the Labrador. What’s its name?” “Cupcake.” “That’s never good.” “You’re afraid of a dog called Cupcake?” “I was bitten by a Pomeranian called Duchess. Names are camouflage.” “Take sausages.” “I’m vegetarian.” “The dog isn’t.” “And the grandmother?” “Compliment her hydrangeas.” “What if she doesn’t have hydrangeas?” “Every grandmother over sixty has hydrangeas or an opinion about them.” Bill tapped the map. “There’s a flaw.” “Impossible.” “The party address is seventeen Willow Crescent.” “Yes.” “This invitation says seventy-one.” Molly snatched the card. “Ah.” “Whose house have you surveilled?” “Apparently, the Patels.” “Do they have twins?” “They have hydrangeas.” “And Cupcake?” “Cupcake may be a lawn ornament.” Bill folded the map. “So we have forty minutes to inspect the correct house, invent a magic act, source a rabbit suit, and buy sausages.” “Thirty-five. We must allow for parking.” “I hate children’s parties.” Molly stood, pocketing the crayons. “Cheer up. There’ll be cake.” “We’re not staying for cake.” “Bill, we’re criminals, not monsters.”