Free Now You See Me... by Rochelle Krich

prompted.
    “Dassie mentioned two girls. Tara and Becky. I don’t know their last names. She was friendly with another girl, but she died.”
    “Batya Weinberg.”
    “You heard about her?” Sara looked surprised. “Oh, the Bailors told you. Dassie was really upset about her.”
    I put my notepad back in my purse. “So I guess other kids from Bais Rifka visit this chat room, right?” I asked, aiming for casual.
    “A few,” she said, wary again. “I can’t tell you who.”
    “I’m not asking. Sara, you
do
understand that chat rooms can be dangerous, don’t you? Even
frum
ones?”
    “I’m careful. I never give away any personal information. Neither do my friends.”
    “Dassie probably thought she was careful, too, Sara.”
    The look she gave me was filled with alarm and resentment. “You
promised
you wouldn’t tell my parents.”
    “I’m going to honor that promise, Sara. I think
you
should tell them. They’ll probably let you continue, with some guidelines.”
    “They won’t.” She slumped down on her chair.
    “Think about it.” I would be thinking about it, too. “Another question, Sara. Do you know Hadassah’s password?”
    “No. I wish I
did
know.”
    The good news was that I believed her. That was the bad news, too.

Chapter 10
    I had learned enough to understand why Hadassah had been easy prey for someone she’d met in a chat room, but I still had no idea how to find her. Driving around the corner, I parked on Alcott and knocked on the doors of several houses on the chance that someone had seen the car that had picked her up Sunday night.
    Of course, no one had.
    I was on Pico, heading home, when I had a thought and drove back toward the Bailors’ house. The street was filled with cars, and I had to park halfway up the block. My parents speak with nostalgia about the Los Angeles of their childhood, when you could leave your door unlocked and walk at night without fear, but I’ve read too much data about muggings in middle-class neighborhoods like this one, muggings that take place even in broad daylight.
    So I hurried along the sidewalk, eager to escape the chill of the evening and the darkness that the street lamps did little to dispel, and when I heard footsteps behind me as I turned onto the Bailors’ walkway, I tensed and whirled around, my car keys in my hand, poised to attack.
    It was Reuben Jastrow. He was wearing a yarmulke and no glasses.
    I dropped my hand. “Stalking me again?”
    His face reddened. “I’m visiting my sister and brother-in-law.”
    Sometimes I speak without thinking. “That was a joke—obviously, not a good one. Sorry.”
    “My wife often says I should lighten up. She’s probably right.” He smiled tightly. “Did you learn anything from Hadassah’s friend?”
    I frowned. “How did you know I was there?”
    “My sister told me you were planning to go there.”
    “Maybe
you
should be doing the detecting. That’s
not
a joke.”
    “I’m sorry. My wife also tells me I can be pushy.” Jastrow followed me up the walkway. “I’m anxious to find Hadassah. We all are.”
    Jastrow rang the bell. A moment later Gavriel Bailor opened the door and stepped aside to let us into the small entry off the living room. He looked surprised to see me with his uncle.
    “This is my nephew, Gavriel,” Jastrow said. “Gavriel, this is Mrs. Abrams.”
    “We met earlier today.” I was struck again by how much the young man resembled his father. The same nose, minus the bump; the same soulful, dark brown eyes.
    “I’ll let my father know you’re here,” he told me. To his uncle, he said,
“Ima
’s in the kitchen.”
    “I’ll wait with Miss Blume.”
    Gavriel nodded and left us in the hall. I supposed Jastrow was being polite, but I had nothing to say to him.
    “He looks like a fine young man,” I said to fill the silence.
    Jastrow nodded. “Nechama gets phone calls almost daily from
shad
chonim. Gavriel is going out with an L.A. girl while he’s home.