Regarding the girls, Decker couldn’t help but think of Shaynda. All of these preteens and teens were so fresh-faced with their hair in pigtails, ponytails, or a long braid that trailed down their backs. None wore a drop of makeup or nail polish… even the adolescent girls.

Especially the adolescent girls.

What was Shaynda’s big sin? Wearing nail polish or makeup? Hanging out at the mall? Breaking away and being with the public-school kids? It seemed so harmless, but not in this community. It would give the locals the wrong idea about the girl, making it hard for her parents to find her a proper shiddach—a match for marriage.

The streets were lined with stores catering to the Jewish trade— kosher cafés, pizza joints and restaurants, kosher meat markets and butchers, produce markets advertising day-old sales, a dress shop featuring discount shaytles—wigs. There were stores that specialized in sepharim, or religious books, and there were smiths that forged esoteric silver objects like torah yads—pointers that a prayer leader would use while reading from the holy scroll. Decker noticed a studio for a sofer—a scribe. Every other establishment seemed to be a schtiebl, or a small storefront synagogue. Maybe some of the places had changed hands, but the overall gestalt of the area was the same— except that the population seemed even more religious than it had been ten years ago. How was that possible?

Jonathan pulled the van curbside in front of a small two-story brick home on a block of small two-story brick homes. This was the house of Lazarus, the abode of Rina’s former in-laws. As always, Decker wanted to wait in the car until it was over. The Lazaruses had gone through the ultimate tragedy, and he always felt as if he were a painful reminder of what shouldn’t have been. Yet, as soon as the motor died, the short, squat couple flew out of the doorway with smiles so wide that they almost bisected their faces. They greeted Decker with a generosity of spirit that defined them as the lovely people they were. Heavy-breasted, apron-wearing, Mrs. Lazarus hugged and kissed Rina; white-bearded Rav Lazarus pumped Decker’s hand with vigor that defied a man of eighty-six. Both of them fussed over Hannah as if she were a blood granddaughter, greeting her with a plate of cookies and several wrapped presents. The little girl smiled, thanking them shyly, calling them Bubbe and Zeyde.

After everyone made nice, Decker took the suitcases into the house. The small living room was hot and stuffy and enveloped in the aromas of chicken soup, roasting meat, and the sweet smell of chocolate-chip cookies, reminding Decker’s stomach that a bagel hadn’t been much of a breakfast. But he’d satisfy the hunger pangs later. He looked at his watch, wondering when he could make a graceful exit. Rina caught it and came to his rescue.

“I know you have work to do. Go. I’ll make excuses.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. The brother’s still dead and the girl’s still missing.”