Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PKPRCN903FNWTS4D12ZCN

Molly spread the floor plan across the bonnet of the van and pinned the corners down with four juice boxes. "Right," she said. "Tyler Pemberton. Turning seven. Forty-two guests, one bouncy castle, and a gift table the size of a small hatchback." Bill leaned in until his nose nearly touched the paper. "Why's the garden drawn in crayon?" "Because I copied it off the invitation, Bill. There's a dinosaur on the back." He flipped it over and nodded gravely at the dinosaur, as though it might be in on the job. The van smelled of stale crisps and ambition. Molly had spent twenty years stealing things that mattered: diamonds, a minor Monet, once an entire racehorse that had later bitten her. But these days the museums had lasers and the banks had lawyers, and the only unguarded treasure left in the county was a mountain of wrapped presents in a suburban garden, protected by one exhausted father holding barbecue tongs. "So what's my part?" Bill asked. "You're the entertainment." "I don't do entertainment." "You do today. You're Mister Giggles, the clown." "I've got a very serious face, Molly. People have commented on it." "That's why it's perfect. Children find serious clowns hilarious. Or terrifying. Either way, they'll be looking at you and not at me." Bill folded his arms. "And what are you doing while I'm being hilarious and terrifying?" "I'll be the bouncy castle attendant. At precisely three o'clock, I deflate the castle. Forty children are suddenly trapped under a giant rubber tent. Total chaos. Parents rush over. I roll the gift table straight out the side gate and into the van." "That seems cruel to the children." "They'll love it. It's like a nap with screaming." Bill considered this, then raised a finger. "What if the presents are rubbish? What if it's all socks?" "Nobody gives a seven-year-old socks. Except grandmothers, and I've accounted for grandmothers. We'll be filtering by shape. Rectangles are video games. Squishy ones go straight in the bin." "What about round ones?" Molly paused. She hadn't thought about round ones. "Round ones are a wildcard," she admitted. He nodded slowly, satisfied to have contributed. Then he pulled the clown costume out of the bag behind the seat and held it up. It was bright yellow, covered in polka dots, and cut for someone roughly half his height. "This is a child's costume." "It was a child's costume. It's a disguise now." "I won't be able to lift my arms." "Then don't lift your arms. Be a minimalist clown. Very modern. Very European." Bill stared at the tiny trousers for a long, sad moment. Across the road, a woman in a sun hat carried a giant stuffed giraffe up the Pembertons' driveway, and Molly's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "Bill," she whispered, gripping his arm. "That giraffe's worth forty quid if it's worth a penny." "How are we fitting a giraffe in the van?" Molly smiled the slow, terrible smile of a woman with a plan. "Neck first," she said.