Once Upon a Grind by Cleo Coyle Page A

descriptions of all the bridges in Central Park. Scroll through them and tell me if anything looks familiar.”
    â€œBalcony Bridge at West Side Drive—
No
.” I continued down the list. “Bow Bridge across the Lake; Bridge Number Twenty-four across the Bridle Path; Gapstow Bridge across the Pond at Fifty-ninth Street; Oak Bridge across Bank Rock Bay—”
    â€œStop,” said Matt.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDidn’t you tell me the
Bridge Detour
sign in your vision was attached to—”
    â€œAn oak tree! Matt, I remember now: This morning Jeremy said something about showing Molly the ducks at Oak Bridge! Where is it? How far?”
    He grabbed back the smartphone, tapped up a map. “We’re very close. Look—”
    â€œIt’s just ahead!” I bolted down the trail.
    â€œSlow down!” Matt yelled. “Don’t make me look for you, too!”
    I picked up my pace instead (which may have been a tad reckless). Hitting a patch of wet leaves, I slipped, skinning an elbow as I fell.
    Footsteps sounded behind me. Then a hand appeared in front of my face.
    â€œReally, Clare, hasn’t your boyfriend taught you the value of
backup
?”
    With a sigh, I took Matt’s hand and hauled myself up. “I’m just so worried about them.”
    â€œI know. Let’s go . . .”
    Together we continued along the trail until the Ramble’s famous Arch appeared. Flanked by massive boulders, this narrow stone bower reminded me of a giant keyhole, and I felt like a shrunken, shivering Alice as we passed through—until I saw another breadcrumb (so to speak).
    â€œA hair ribbon!”
    I moved the flashlight’s beam over the object. The ribbon looked like Molly’s, except the sunny yellow color was half-buried in blackness.
    The sight of that innocent little thing soiled and ground into the dirt sent a deathlike chill through me, and I took off again.
    â€œClare!”
    â€œCome on!” I shouted, unable to stop myself.
    By now, I could see a glimmer in the distance—lamplight reflecting on undulating waves. I jogged toward the light until I reached a small section of Central Park’s Lake.
    The landmark Oak Bridge spanned the inlet. Flanked by beaux-arts lampposts, the beautifully restored bridge had been carrying people safely across the brackish water for well over a century.
    In the middle of its wooden deck, I spied a boy and a girl in a pool of golden light, leaning against its cast-iron railings.
    â€œMolly! Jeremy!”
    With a shriek of joy and relief, I ran to them.

F IFTEEN

    M OLLY threw herself into my arms.
    She’s crying
, I realized,
and not tears of joy . . .
    â€œWe tried to find Annie!” she said between heartrending sobs. “Someone told us they saw the Pink Princess in the Ramble, but when we got here—”
    â€œPenny ran away, Aunt Clare,” Jeremy said in an emotionless tone (not unlike his father’s).
    â€œShe took off after a squirrel,” Molly added through tears. “The leash slipped out of my hand!”
    Molly wiped her nose with a tissue she pulled from her pocket.
    I noticed something shiny coming out with it—a chain of silver and gold links with a broken clasp. I tucked the broken necklace back into her pocket and continued to comfort the inconsolable girl.
    â€œIt’s my fault, Aunt Clare,” Molly wailed. “Now Penny is lost!”
    Jeremy squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t cry, Mol. I told you I’d find Penny, and I will.”
    By now, Matt had caught up with us and was on the phone with Samantha Peel. In record time, an electric buggy appeared on the far side of the Oak Bridge.
    Samantha rode in back with a fuming Leila Quinn. Up front, a police officer sat behind the wheel next to the festival’s legal advisor.
    I sighed.
Has our society turned so litigious we need lawyers to oversee the reunion of lost kids with