Run: 2026-09-23-01M37Q460YDGMHR7NJ8Y39B9EN

Molly spread the floor plan across the kitchen table, pinning one corner with a mug that read WORLD'S OKAYEST AUNT. "Right," she said. "The Pemberton residence. Saturday, two o'clock. Little Tarquin turns seven." Bill leaned over the drawing. "Is that a moat?" "It's a paddling pool." "Looks like a moat." "It's a paddling pool, Bill. Focus. The presents go on a table in the conservatory. By three o'clock there'll be forty gifts, minimum. The Pembertons know people who buy remote-control helicopters for children they've met once." "And we just walk in?" "We walk in as entertainment." She slid a glossy flyer toward him. "Mister Giggles and Bubbles the Clown. Booked and confirmed." Bill stared at it. "Which one am I?" "You're Bubbles." "Why am I Bubbles?" "Because Mister Giggles has lines." "I can do lines!" "You told a police officer your name was Bill Burglar." "That was nerves," Bill muttered. "It's a common surname." Molly tapped the conservatory. "While I'm doing balloon animals in the garden, you slip inside, load the presents into the prop trunk, and wheel it out to the van." "What if a kid follows me?" "Tell them it's a magic trunk and anyone who looks inside turns into broccoli." "That's dark, Molly." "Children respect a threat with vegetables in it." Bill frowned. "What about the parents? They watch like hawks." "Parents at these things watch the wine. By half two, they'll be in the kitchen arguing about school catchment areas. We could steal the house." "Could we?" "No. Stick to the plan." He picked up a pencil and drew a small circle near the paddling pool. "What's this?" "That's you, if you improvise." "I just think we need a contingency." "Fine. The contingency is cake. If anything goes wrong, you announce cake. Nobody under ten can resist cake. It's a stampede. We use the chaos." "What if there's no cake yet?" "Then you announce it very confidently." Bill nodded slowly, as if memorising scripture. "Cake. Confidently." He paused. "Molly, how do I make balloon animals?" "You don't. I do." "But I've been practising." He pulled a limp green balloon from his pocket and twisted it with great concentration. It squealed, sagged, and became a tired sausage. Molly stared. "What is that?" "A giraffe." "It has no legs." "It's sitting down." She took the balloon, folded it three times, and handed back a perfect poodle. "One more thing," Bill said. "What if Tarquin cries? I don't do well with crying." "He won't cry until Sunday. That's when he opens the empty boxes." "Empty boxes?" Molly smiled and pulled a roll of shiny wrapping paper from under the table. "We're not just taking the presents, Bill. We're replacing them. Nobody notices a theft if the pile stays the same height." Bill looked at her with something close to reverence. "That's evil." "That's professional." She rolled up the floor plan. "Now go find your nose. It's red, it's round, and last time you left it in the getaway car."