Now You See Me... by Rochelle Krich Read Free Book Online Page B

was missing, either. Since she’d started driving, Hadassah usually shopped alone, and she often used her babysitting earnings for her purchases, so her parents weren’t aware of what she bought.
    Aliza wasn’t familiar with her sister’s wardrobe.
    “We don’t share clothes—well, except sweaters,” she said. “Dassie and I have different figures. She’s much taller, for one thing.”
    While Aliza sorted through the mounds of clothes on both beds, I rummaged through Hadassah’s drawers and found clothing typical of the average Orthodox Jewish teenager, along with assorted memorabilia. Ticket stubs to Jewish concerts, letters from camp friends, an elementary school autograph book. Included among the letters was a photo of a brown-haired girl. I showed it to Aliza.
    “That’s Batya Weinberg,” she said, her somber tone telegraphing bad news. “She was in Dassie’s class. She died last May.”
    I looked at the thin young face and felt a twinge of sadness for someone I didn’t even know. “What happened?”
    “She had a heart attack. It happened very fast—like with that athlete who died on the field? They didn’t know he had a heart condition. After Batya died, my dad had a psychologist talk to all the students. It wasn’t just because of Batya. A boy in their class who had cancer died a few months before Batya. And the year before, another girl lost her sister in a car accident.”
    A heavy load of grief for one class. “Did Hadassah talk with this psychologist?”
    “I guess. She was depressed about Batya and the other kids who died. Everybody was. But you’d have to ask my father.”
    I made a mental note to do that. “Aside from Sara Mellon, who else would your sister have confided in?”
    Aliza looked sheepish. “Like I said, we’re not close.”
    The backpack and overnight bag that Hadassah had taken to Sara’s were in a corner of the room. The bag held her school uniform, underwear, opaque tights, and a pink vinyl zippered bag with toiletries. The school bag contained spiral notebooks, a notepad, pens, folders. I checked the folders and notebooks (in high school I’d written “Mrs. Zack Abrams” countless times), but I found no clue to the identity of Hadassah’s Internet boyfriend.
    In the closet I flipped through the clothes in the section Aliza indicated was Hadassah’s. Most of the skirts and blouses (all long-sleeved, as Rabbi Bailor had said) were size two. A few were size 0, a size I’ll never understand. And Abercrombie and Fitch, I heard, sells clothes in size 00.
    “Dassie can eat a dozen doughnuts and not gain an ounce,” Aliza said with envy when I remarked on the sizes. “I gained fifteen pounds in Israel and still haven’t lost everything.”
    “Everybody gains weight in seminary.” The wonderful fresh bread, the falafel, the chumous and tehina. “You look fine, Aliza.”
    “That’s what my parents say, but tell it to the guys. They all want skinny, skinny, skinny.” She sucked in her cheeks, then let out her breath with an uncertain laugh. “And tall. I’m short, so every ounce shows. But I’m on South Beach now, and I lost three pounds.”
    I’ve tried the South Beach diet. And The Zone, and a few others. So have my sisters and my mother, who is struggling with the pounds menopause has added. I mostly struggle with chocolate.
    Aliza moved back to the bed and picked up a black sweater. “Dassie reads everything you write. She wants to be a lawyer, so I guess that’s why.” She folded a sleeve of the sweater, her eyes on me. “My father said you worked with the police to solve some cases.”
    “Not in an official capacity. But I
was
able to help them,” I said, not wanting to sound immodest, yet hoping to give her assurance.
    “Do you think you can find Dassie?”
    “I don’t know. I’m going to try.”
    She finished folding the sweater. “I don’t care what people say if they find out. I just want Dassie home.” Tears flooded her eyes. “I keep