Free Now You See Me... by Rochelle Krich Page A

She’s lovely, from a wonderful family.”
    I heard Rabbi Bailor’s footsteps before I saw him hurrying toward us, his hand on top of his black yarmulke as if he were preventing it from flying off his head.
    “Did you learn something?” he asked me eagerly after acknowledging his brother-in-law with a quick greeting.
    Hearing the hope in his voice was painful. I shook my head and saw disappointment drag down the corners of his mouth. Jastrow’s, too.
    “Nechama’s waiting for you,” the rabbi told his brother-in-law. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”
    Jastrow hesitated. After giving his brother-in-law a look, he wished me good night and passed through the dining room to the kitchen. Odd, I thought.
    “So what
did
Sara tell you?” the rabbi said.
    I gave him an edited summary, leaving out Sara’s guess that Dassie had been drunk.
    Rabbi Bailor sighed. “I had no idea Dassie felt so lonely at school. She was always smiling, always looking happy. Why didn’t she come to us?”
    “She probably didn’t want to worry you, especially if she thought you couldn’t solve her problems.”
    In high school and during several years that followed, I’d presented a happy demeanor to my parents, even though I’d been struggling with teachers and broken friendships and my growing doubts about Orthodox observance. Afterward my parents had asked the same questions: How is it that we didn’t see, Molly? Why didn’t you tell us?
    “Sara mentioned that history teacher Hadassah liked,” I continued. “She said Dassie was close to him. Maybe they’re still in touch.”
    “I doubt it.”
    “It can’t hurt to check. What’s his name? Is he Jewish, by the way?”
    “Greg Shankman.” The rabbi said the name grudgingly. “Yes, he’s Jewish. Why?”
    His reluctance piqued my interest. “Just curious. I’ll call you tomorrow for his contact information. Sara said Shankman left in September because of a family emergency.
You
said he wasn’t at Torat Tzion this year.”
    “You’re nit-picking, Molly.”
    “ ‘Examine the Torah’s language carefully, and it will reveal fascinating meanings.’ Isn’t that what you taught us? Isn’t that what the commentaries do?”
    The rabbi forced a smile. “I’m delighted to know that you took my lessons to heart, Molly.”
    “There
was
no family emergency, was there?”
    “Mr. Shankman’s leaving has no bearing on Dassie.” He glanced behind him. “My wife and brother-in-law are waiting for me. If you’ll excuse me?”
    “Was Greg Shankman fired?” The rabbi’s stiffened posture gave me my answer. “He was, wasn’t he?”
    “I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Shankman.”
    His tone and diction spelled “lawsuit.” “Shankman left in September, right?” I said, thinking aloud. “According to Sara, that’s when Dassie met this man in the chat room.”
    “So?”
    “So if Shankman was fired, maybe he
arranged
to meet Dassie in the chat room, to get back at you. That would explain the personal tone of the note.”
    “Ridiculous.” The rabbi shook his head. “First of all,” he said, taking on the traditional sing-song Talmudic cadence, “according to Sara, the man Dassie met is twenty. Mr. Shankman is closer to thirty.”
    “People don’t always give correct personal data in chat rooms—or in personal ads, or online sites.”
    My last date via a Jewish site—“Tall, good-looking, spiritual, free spirit, affectionate”—had been a short, overweight, forty-year-old out-of-work computer programmer who thought buying me a drink entitled him to cop a feel.
    And Kacie Woody’s killer, I recalled, had pretended to be eighteen to gain her trust. And a thirty-four-year-old Phoenix police officer had pretended to be a teen when he sexually assaulted a thirteen-year-old boy less than two hours after he first met the boy in an AOL chat room.
    “Anyway,” Rabbi Bailor said, “Dassie saw his photo
before
she met him. She would have recognized Mr.