Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD4SPS9A29RF10VQ52KW2CS

The blueprints were crayon on a paper placemat, which should have been Molly’s first warning. “Remind me,” Bill whispered, “why our big score is a six-year-old’s birthday?” “Because nobody expects crime near a clown,” Molly said, tapping the stick figure labeled CAKE??? “Also, because Derek Vane’s wife spent forty grand on presents for little Pumpkin’s dinosaur extravaganza.” “Pumpkin?” “Industry nickname.” Across the street, the Vane mansion glowed like a wedding cake had mugged a rainbow. Balloons bucked against their ribbons. A bouncy castle exhaled in the yard. Somewhere inside, children shrieked with the pure, feral joy of people who had never paid rent. Bill adjusted his waiter’s jacket, stolen from a magician who’d stolen it from a cruise ship. “I hate the perimeter. Too many mothers with sunglasses. They can smell guilt.” “That’s your natural musk.” “It’s called Dread by Calvin Klein.” Molly unfolded the plan. “Phase one: we enter as catering. Phase two: I befriend the clown. Phase three: you locate the gift table.” “And the clown?” “Biscuit is an artist, not security.” “He has a bicycle horn and eyes like a parole board.” Inside, the party was worse than recon suggested. A person in a T-rex costume was doing motivational lunges. A cello played “Baby Shark” with unnecessary dignity. The gift table sagged beneath silver boxes, each bow tied tighter than Bill’s alibi in Fresno. Molly lifted two flutes of apple juice from a passing tray. “Blend.” “I am blending,” Bill said, knocking elbows with a grandmother. “I’m blended. I’m soup.” “You’re vibrating.” “There are forty children here, Molly. That’s eighty small witnesses with frosting evidence.” “Relax. Crime hates sticky hands.” They drifted toward the pile, casual as cholesterol. Molly palmed a ribbon cutter disguised as a party blower. Bill produced a velvet sack labeled, disastrously, LAUNDRY. “Not that sack.” “It was clean.” “It says LAUNDRY.” “Presents are laundry if you believe in yourself.” A tiny girl in a crown appeared beside them, solemn as a tiny judge. “Are you present robbers?” Bill dropped a spoon. Molly smiled with all her teeth. “We’re from the North Pole.” “It’s June.” “Off-season elves,” Bill said. The child narrowed her eyes. “Daddy says strangers near gifts get tased.” Molly leaned down. “Daddy sounds fun.” “He’s a CPA with unresolved issues.” Biscuit the clown honked from across the room. Once. Twice. A code? A threat? Jazz? Molly felt the job tilt the way jobs did right before the floor opened. “Abort?” Bill murmured. “Absolutely not,” Molly said, watching the birthday boy tear into a box big enough to hold a kayak. “But we’re revising phase three.” “To?” “Grab the kayak box, compliment the cello, and never trust a clown with peripheral vision.” Bill sighed, resigned and radiant. “This is how we end up in a balloon animal.” “Then be a swan,” Molly said, and stepped into the sugar-scented riot.