Run: 2026-09-23-01M36T3KRCS2WZCDT5WBMY3SAM

Molly spread the flyer across the table, smoothing out the creases with the careful precision of a surgeon prepping an incision. The paper smelled faintly of frosting and poor life choices. "Richmond-Grant seventh birthday party. Saturday. Two to five. Indoor climbing centre, Unit 4, Millfield Industrial Estate." Bill leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the flyer as though it were written in Aramaic. "A children's party, Mols. Really. This is where we've landed." "Children's parties are goldmines. Everyone brings a present. Nobody brings a brain." "So we're robbing seven-year-olds now." "We're not robbing them. We're relieving them of burdens. Do you have any idea how much plastic waste is generated by a single children's birthday?" "Don't dress it up. We're nicking presents." "Richmond-Grant. Those names scream money. The kid's probably got a trust fund and a pony." "Kids can't have trust funds." "This one can. Look at that font. That's a custom invitation. Someone paid a graphic designer to make a flyer for a birthday party." Bill studied the flyer again. "It is quite nice, actually. Very clean." "Exactly. And between two and five, every one of those well-heeled parents will leave their gifts at the designated present table, then wander off to sip wine and pretend they enjoy watching children fall off climbing walls." "And what about supervision? It's a party full of adults." "Adults distracted by wine and the soul-crushing reality of parenthood. Have you ever been to a children's party sober?" "Can't say I have." "Neither has anyone there. Trust me. The climbing centre has a back door near the loos. I've cased it." "You've cased a children's climbing centre." "I cased a building. The fact that children climb things inside it is incidental." Bill sat down heavily, the chair groaning under him like a dying animal. "What about the kids? What if a kid sees us?" "A seven-year-old? The witnesses are unreliable. Half of them can't spell their own names." "That doesn't make me feel better about stealing from them." "We're not stealing from the children. We're stealing from the parents. Through the children. It's practically a tax on the wealthy." "That is absolutely not how tax works." Molly pulled a second sheet from her bag and laid it over the flyer. It was a floor plan of the building, meticulously drawn in pencil. Bill stared at it. "When did you do this?" "Tuesday. Also, the loading bay is open until four because they replace the foam mats on Wednesdays. Wednesdays, Bill. The blind spot of the week is ours." "How long do we have?" "Ten minutes, tops. In and out before anyone notices the present table is bare. They'll assume a parent grabbed the wrong gift." "And if they don't assume that?" "Then we run. I've mapped three escape routes. One involves a fire exit. One involves a ventilation shaft. And one involves pretending to be lost parents looking for the toilet." "What's wrong with the toilet one?" "Nothing. It's my favourite. But you'd have to pretend to know which child is ours, and frankly, I don't think you could name a single child's name." "Of course I could. There's... Timothy." "The flyer says Oliver." Bill stood up. "I don't want to do this." Molly smiled. "Saturday. Two o'clock. Wear something festive. It's a party, after all."