Run: 2026-10-08-01M4DAKDVBZ4KX56QXCRR1R07R

The van idled behind the Maplewood Community Hall, headlights off, exhaust puffing little ghosts into the frosty night. Inside, Molly adjusted a pair of plastic reindeer antlers while Bill squinted at a hand-drawn floor plan taped to the steering wheel. "Right," Bill said, tapping the paper. "Party starts at seven. Clown arrives at seven-fifteen. Presents go on the table by the piñata at seven-thirty. Our window is the cake cutting." "Why the cake cutting?" "Because every adult in the building will be staring at a six-year-old holding a knife like it's a hostage negotiation. Nobody watches the gift table during a knife." Molly nodded slowly, pulling on wool gloves decorated with cartoon penguins. The gloves were a mistake, and she knew it, but she was committed. "Fair. What about security?" "Gerald." "Gerald is a retired accountant with a whistle." "Gerald has a whistle and a grudge against me since the bouncy castle incident." "You deflated the bouncy castle." "I was testing a theory." The van's engine coughed as Molly flipped open a laundry bag with the confidence of a woman who had planned everything. "I'm going in through the kitchen. You're on the fire exit." "Why am I on the fire exit?" "Because last time you tried the front door dressed as a Victorian ghost, and a toddler called the police on you." "He had a very strong grip on my sheet." They climbed out into the snow. Bill tripped over a half-buried tricycle, swore under his breath, and knocked over a garden gnome that stared at him with painted disapproval. Molly hissed at him from across the lot. "Keep it down. We're professionals." "We're professionals at a children's party, Molly. Everyone here is four feet tall and armed with frosting." Inside, the hall roared with squealing and the thump of the bouncy castle, which Bill eyed warily from the corridor. Molly slipped through the kitchen, past a tray of shark-shaped cupcakes, and found the gift table buried under glittering boxes, each one tied with a ribbon big enough to choke a horse. Her earpiece crackled. "You're clear," Bill whispered. "Gerald's distracted. He's blowing that whistle at a kid who's trying to eat the gingerbread house." "Good. Grab the big ones. The small ones are probably socks." "Socks are a crime too." She shoved three boxes into the bag. Then a tiny voice behind her said, "Are you Santa?" Molly froze. Slowly, she turned. A little girl in a princess dress stood there, clutching a juice box and squinting up at the antlers. "Um. Yes," Molly said. "Santa's early this year. Very busy." "Santa has a beard." "Santa's beard is... in the van." Bill's voice hissed in her ear. "Molly, why are you talking to a child?" "Because she's onto us!" The girl grinned and pointed at the bulging laundry bag. "Can I have one?" Molly sighed, the weight of her criminal career pressing down on her shoulders. She pulled out the smallest box, a tiny pink thing with a bow the size of a thumb, and pressed it into the girl's hands. "Just this one. And you didn't see me." "Okay," the girl said solemnly, and skipped away toward the cake. Bill's voice crackled again. "That was the worst heist I've ever witnessed." "Start the van, Bill. Before Gerald finds his whistle again."