Page 49 of Reckless Desire

“Have they searched the grounds?” It’s an idiotic question because of course they have, but asking gives me a false sense of control as my own helplessness keeps stabbing my insides.

Sydney nods and I groan.

“Has she ever been here?” she prompts again. Her questions are more helpful than mine, but I don’t fucking have answers. Panic strangles me.

“To the museum?” Sydney continues, not showing any frustration from my lack of answers. “The police could help us search Central Park. You go there often, don’t you?”

“We’ve been here once, but I don’t think there is anything here. And she wouldn’t go to the park by herself.”Would she?

“Does she have any friends living around here?” With each question, another wave of desperation splashes over me.

“No. And she wouldn’t just run away. She must be somewhere here. How do you lose a child?” The moment I say it I regret it, even though it’s not a completely outlandish thing to ask. To accuse.

Sydney flinches and swallows.

“There is nothing around here, no memories she would like to revisit?” She struggles to keep her voice even as tears pool around her eyes.

Traffic roars on Columbus Avenue, ratcheting my desperation and fear to a new level. How do you find a child here? What if something happened to her? What if—?

Don’t go there. Don’t go there, asshole.

“Hunter, I’m really sorry. Really sorry.” She puts her hand on my biceps and I want to recoil, but the warmth and empathy seep from her touch through my sweatshirt, crawling into the dark crevices of my heart.

Sydney shoves a phone under my nose. “You can be mad at me later. First, let’s find her.” I look at the map on the screen and then at Sydney, frowning. “Zoom in and look around. Maybe there is a bakery, or a book or toy store she likes.”

It takes me several moments before I truly force my brain to focus on the web of streets on the screen. Part of me fights the idea. I can’t locate Caro on a fucking map. Where the hell are the police?

I’m about to turn off the screen when my eyes land on a familiar name.

“I think I know where she might be.” I run toward the intersection, cursing as the lights turn red. Sydney follows while she talks on the phone, explaining to someone we’re leaving the premises.

Sirens blare and screech to a halt behind us, the kaleidoscope of blue and red lights flickering through the air. I can talk to the police later. Right now, I’m propelled by new determination. My mission might be futile, but action is much better than helplessness.

Sydney stays one step behind me. She doesn’t talk. Doesn’t question our destination. She simply keeps by my side. A silent, confident pillar of support. Even in her heels, she somehow keeps up with my much longer gait.

It takes us less than ten minutes to reach the Tecumseh Playground on Amsterdam. Caroline used to spend time here with her mom and she’s been bugging me to come again. I didn’t find time. Please let her be there.

“Caroline,” I call.

A group of young women laughs and chats in the corner.

A lone woman reads a magazine on a bench.

Kids are climbing, sliding, roaming everywhere.

“Caroline,” I yell again as I bounce between the children and parents like a lunatic. I’m out of my mind, so yeah, people, crazy person on the loose. I glare at one mother who scoots her little boy behind her.

The young women disperse to shield their proteges. A little girl looks at me wide-eyed and starts crying.

It’s a small playground with a wood-and-ropes jungle gym, monkey bars, slides and swings. Caro is too big for it now, but I understand the sentiment of revisiting it. It hits me with a devastating intensity. I’ve been so focused on encouraging her to live forward and not get stuck in the past that I’ve completely ignored her need for grief or memories.

“I don’t think she is here, Hunter.”

I startle and spin around. I forgot Sydney was with me. I must look like an idiot who lost his ability to process words—and I probably did—because she repeats, “I don’t think she is here.”

The vise around my chest tightens, the fear creeping through my bloodstream. Sydney reaches and rubs my arm, but I step aside and rake my hair with my fingers, grabbing a fistful. I kick a pebble and run out through the little gate.

The street is unforgiving, bustling, fucking dangerous for a little girl. It must be loud as well, but I can’t hear anything through the thunderous pulse in my ears.

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