Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPTCASZD668MZ8XWX7SKNE

The van smelled of stale birthday cake, a fact Molly attributed entirely to Bill's coat. "Say it again," she said. "Slowly." "I go in as the clown." "You go in as the clown." "Right. Bonzo. Bonzo the Wonderful." "And what does Bonzo the Wonderful do, Bill?" "Balloons. Some juggling. A bit where I pretend my thumb comes off." "You cannot do the thumb bit." "Everyone loves the thumb bit." "Everyone loves the thumb bit when the thumb comes back. You did it at Marjorie's and a child screamed for forty minutes." Bill adjusted his enormous red nose in the rearview mirror with the solemnity of a man knotting a tie for a funeral. "That child had issues." "That child had a witness statement." Molly unfolded the diagram across the dashboard. "Focus. Twenty-two guests, all under nine. Presents go on the trestle table by the patio doors, here. Parents cluster at the kitchen island because that's where the wine is. Nobody watches the presents. Nobody has ever watched the presents in the history of the world." "So why do we need the clown?" "Because you need a reason to be inside the house holding a large bag." "Ah," said Bill. "Clever." "It's the entire plan, Bill. It's been the entire plan for eleven days." "I thought the entire plan was the bouncy castle." "The bouncy castle is a distraction." "From what?" "From the fact that a man in size fourteen shoes is walking out of the back door with thirty-one gifts." Molly tapped the diagram. "At three fifteen, you announce that Bonzo has to fetch his magic trunk from the van. Nobody questions a clown fetching a trunk. You load. You return. You do one more balloon animal so it doesn't look suspicious." "What animal?" "I don't care what animal." "It matters, Molly. A giraffe says confidence. A dog says I've given up." "Do a giraffe." "A giraffe takes ninety seconds." "Then do a snake." "A snake is just a balloon." "Bill." "I'm only saying that if we're going to commit a crime, we should commit it with craft." Molly rubbed her eyes. "Fine. Giraffe. Now, the mother's name is Deborah. Her son is Ptolemy—" "Ptolemy?" "—and he's turning seven, and if she asks how you found the job, you say you're covering for Tinsel, who has shingles." "Tinsel who has shingles." Bill wrote it on his palm. "And what are you doing while I'm in there being a professional?" "Sitting in the van, with the engine running, listening to you fail." "That's not a role." "It's the getaway." "It's sitting." "It's the most important sitting in the county." She checked her watch, then his nose, then straightened it half an inch. "Bill. One question. If a child asks you to make a balloon rifle, what do you say?" "I say Bonzo doesn't do weapons." "Good." "Then I make a sword." "Out." Bill hauled his bag from the footwell, paused with one hand on the door, and grinned through the greasepaint. "You know the terrible thing, Molly?" "What." "I'm quite looking forward to it." "So am I," she said, "which is how I know we'll be caught."