Page 73 of The Bone Hacker

“Not at all. He was only being helpful.”

“Thatchazeris only helpful when he wants something. Then he has no shame asking—”

“When will Uri be home?” Monck cut her off.

Adeera glanced at her watch, an ancient Timex with a man’s wide leather band. “One hour. Every day, I make him lunch.”

“We’ll wait.” Monck didn’t frame it as a question.

“This nonsense is so urgent?”

“It is.” Monck snapped.

“In the meantime, I’d love to know more about being ashochet.” I said it mostly to appease Adeera, who was now regarding Monck with open contempt. “Perhaps you could explain the process for me?”

Adeera sighed, stepped back, and held the door wide. “Remove your shoes.”

We did, students obeying a stern teacher.

The condo resembled many I’d seen in Provo. White tile floor.White walls. Veranda overlooking surf pounding sand. The view from this one was a long way down.

There all similarity ended. Not in a good way.

Adeera’s furnishings looked like they’d been purchased in the fifties, retained unaltered, then transferred and positioned as in their previous life. A life that had enjoyed significantly greater square footage.

Snaking between a purple velvet couch and a carved mahogany coffee table, I took a seat on one of two closely packed Queen Anne chairs. Monck took the other.

“I will get refreshments.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” I said.

Adeera looked at me as though I’d suggested breathing was unnecessary. Disappeared.

Rattling noises drifted from a kitchen that must have been off to the left. A refrigerator doorwhishedopen,thumpedshut.

I looked around.

Every inch of every wall was crammed with framed Judaic art and Hebrew prayers. The floor at our feet was covered with an antique area rug featuring a menorah flanked by what looked like feathers.

Across the hall, ice rattled. Glass clinked.

A sideboard stretched behind the sofa, somberly dark like the low table gouging my knees. On it, framed portraits sat to either side of an enormous menorah. Each showed a man, one tall and thin, one of medium height and bulkier.

This time I thought not of Ryan but of John Samuel Dobzhansky. J.S., currently a psychologist and profiler for the FBI, who was my boyfriend throughout my junior and senior years of high school. And, more relevant, Jewish. Or at least half Jewish. But that half was enough. I learned a lot of Yiddish during our time together.

The subject of each photo had a beard andpayot, a long side curl. The taller man wore ashtreimel, a fur hat, on his head, and a tallit, a black-and-white-striped shawl, draped around his shoulders.The shorter man was in a black suit wrapped with a tzitzit at the waist.

I wondered if one of the pair could be Uri Stribbe.

My speculation was cut short by Adeera’s reappearance. Moving briskly, she placed a tray on the table. It held a pitcher of lemonade, four glasses, coasters, and a plate of homemade cookies.

Though curious, I didn’t query the extra tumbler.

Without asking our wishes, Adeera poured and distributed drinks, carefully placing one on each of the tiny mats. Then she sat on the sofa, crossed her ankles, and tucked her skirt tight to her legs. Folding her hands in her lap, she did not lean back.

“So. You’re curious about animal slaughter.”

“I am.”

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