Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PMAHCY240ZWMBG4AXJSPT

Molly spread the blueprint across the kitchen table and weighed down the corners with a teapot, a stapler, and Bill's elbow. "That's not a blueprint," Bill said. "That's a birthday invitation." "It's a blueprint if you believe in yourself." She tapped the glittery unicorn in the corner. "Saturday, two o'clock, 14 Maple Crescent. Little Tabitha Pemberton turns seven. Thirty guests. Thirty presents. More if the grandparents feel guilty about something." Bill leaned closer, squinting at the rainbow font. "It says 'bouncy castle and magician.'" "Security," Molly said grimly. "The bouncy castle is a distraction. The magician is the real threat. Men who pull rabbits out of hats notice when things disappear." Bill nodded slowly, the way he did when pretending to understand tax forms. He had been Molly's partner for eleven years, and in that time they had stolen a pearl necklace, a vintage motorcycle, and, once, by accident, a very confused goose. "So what's the plan?" Molly produced a paper bag from her coat and shook it open. Inside were enormous red shoes, a rainbow wig, and a nose that honked when squeezed. "No," said Bill. "Yes." "I'm not being a clown, Molly. I have a reputation." "You have a warrant. That's different." She pressed the nose into his palm. "Nobody looks at the clown. Everybody looks away from the clown. It's basic psychology." Bill honked the nose once, mournfully. "And what are you going to be?" "The mother of a child who wasn't invited." She smiled. "Nothing gets you through a front door faster than awkwardness." She drew a wobbly line across the invitation with a purple crayon, the only writing tool left in the kitchen drawer. It ran from the front gate, past a doodled cake, and ended at a scribbled heap labeled LOOT. "The presents stay stacked on the dining table until after cake," she explained. "That's our window. Eleven minutes, give or take a meltdown. While the kids sing, you juggle. While they eat, I bag." "I can't juggle." "Then fall over. Children love it when adults fall over. Have you never met a child?" "Not socially." Molly ignored him and circled the cake twice. Outside, a car alarm whined, and both of them froze out of professional habit before relaxing again. "What about the getaway?" Bill asked. "Ice cream van." "We don't have an ice cream van." "We will on Saturday. It belongs to your cousin Derek." "Derek sells hot dogs." "Then we'll be the first criminals in history to escape in a hot dog van. People will write songs about us." Bill sat back and rubbed his eyes. The wig had slid off the table and landed on the cat, who now looked like a disappointed game show host. "One question," he said. "What exactly are we stealing? Thirty boxes of crayons? A plastic pony?" Molly's eyes gleamed. "Tabitha's grandfather owns a jewelry shop, Bill. And he's exactly the sort of man who thinks a seven-year-old needs a diamond tiara." Bill stared at her. Then, very slowly, he fitted the red nose onto his face. "Honk," he said solemnly. "That's the spirit."