Run: 2026-09-23-01M36W976DKNTJYKJ3MKA9RVZX

Molly unfolded the invitation on her lap and squinted at the tiny print. Confetti surged on the design like a tiny firework frozen mid-burst. "Right, little Timmy O'Brien turns five this Saturday. Twenty-six kids expected, plus parents." "Twenty-six?" Bill adjusted his monocle, then caught himself and shoved it into his pocket. "That's not a party, that's a riot with sprinkles." Molly flipped the invitation over. "Twelve o'clock. Forty-five minutes from now. Balloons at twelve-thirty, pass the parcel at one, cake at one-fifteen. We hit pass the parcel. Maximum chaos, minimum vigilance." "Brilliant." Bill rubbed his hands together. "So how many presents are we talking about?" Molly counted on her fingers. "One per guest, twenty-six gifts, plus a present pile from latecomers. Easily thirty-plus packages." "Thirty-plus," Bill whispered reverently, as though counting cathedral bells. "We dress as caterers." "Caterers? Molly, we've robbed a casino in tuxedos, a museum in evening gowns, and a jewellery store in a bathrobe." "And every single time we got caught. We're changing the approach. Caterers are invisible. Nobody watches the caterers. You'd be amazed how untrustworthy people are with catering staff. They simply don't see you." Bill considered this. "What about the cake? I'm not carrying a cake." "No cake needed. We bring empty trays and swap them for loaded ones. Standard misdirection." "And what do we say if someone asks?" Molly smiled. "If someone asks, you say 'Would you like another canapé?' in a thick French accent. If you're confident enough, nobody questions you." Bill tried the accent. "Would you, uh, like ze, um, canapé?" Molly winced. "Work on it." "Fine. Fine. Now what about the parents? They're going to be watching their little cherubs opening gifts like hawks." "Not hawks. Mothers will be watching the kids. Fathers will be standing near the drinks table pretending they'd rather be anywhere else. The only ones paying attention will be Grandpa Morris, who's always by the fish tank." "Grandpa Morris," Bill repeated. "What's he going to do, complain about our napkin-fold technique?" "No. He's going to tell me I'm carrying the tray wrong. So we avoid the fish tank." Bill nodded slowly. "I've always admired your planning, Molly. Between you and me, heist experts never believe us when we tell them about your work." Molly slid the invitation back into her coat. "Let's save the admiration for the car. Now, the getaway. We stack the presents into three large gift bags labelled 'Party Favors' and walk out the front door." "Walk out the front door," Bill said. "Like guests." "Like guests who got bored." Bill stood up, brushing crumbs from his trousers. "You know what I love about this job?" "What?" "Everyone likes a children's party. Nobody suspects the caterers. And if things go sideways, we can always claim we're lost and looking for the ball pit." Molly laughed and stood beside him, grabbing a pair of white gloves from her bag. "At five-thirty, the clown arrives. After that, nothing matters. Everyone's distracted." "Clown to the rescue," Bill said, pulling on his own gloves. They walked together toward the van parked in the alley, two caterers with nothing but hungry ambition, a fake French accent, and an absolutely foolproof plan.