Chapter 6
LEROUX ARRIVES AT RESURRECTION HOUSE in a fog, beaten down by the weight of the day. Walking up to the entrance, he stops to observe the intricately carved wood that surrounds the door. This structure is old and run-down, but it retains small shreds of its former life as a grand home.
He looks around for a doorbell but finds an empty hole where one likely once resided. It’s been covered up by a small piece of plywood, but not very skillfully.
The old door knocker looks like a small hand holding a ball. It’s slender and delicate, but as he gives it a good knock, it makes a loud cracking sound on the metal beneath it.
After a moment, the door creaks open halfway to reveal a young woman who looks to be in her late teens. She eyes him suspiciously and keeps most of her body covered by the door. She doesn’t say anything; she just stares at him, chewing on the end of her hair.
“Uh, hi,” he begins, a little thrown by the silent encounter. “I’m Detective John Leroux with the New Orleans Police Department.” He flashes a badge at her impatiently.
Her eyes widen for a second, and then she begins to push the door closed without a word.
“Hey! Whoa!” he says, holding his hand out and stopping the door from shutting. “I’m here to see Sister Moreau. She knows I’m coming.”
The young girl just keeps staring at him, then she glances to her left and an older-looking girl steps out from behind the door.
“Evelyn, let the detective in,” she says, a kind tone to her voice.
She opens the door wide, gesturing for him to enter. Evelyn gives him one last look and then walks down the hall.
“Sorry about her. She doesn’t trust anyone, especially police,” she says. “I’m Ava.”
“Thank you, Ava. Nice to meet you. I’m Detective Leroux.” He reaches his hand out, and she shakes it gently. “Sister Moreau is expecting me.”
Ava nods, pointing toward a room at the back of the entryway. “She’s right in there. Nice to meet you.”
He nods, heading in the direction she pointed.
Around him, it’s like a time capsule: beautiful wood that’s been aged almost into ruin, wallpaper so faded that it looks like dried-up palm leaves, and a decomposing chandelier that hangs threateningly above them.
But despite the decay, there are signs of vibrant life: He spots pink hooded sweatshirts slung over a chair; several thriving plants dot corners and surfaces; and he can hear sounds of laughter and conversation from every part of the home.
When he walks into the room he was directed to, he sees a woman standing in the other doorway with her hands clutched in front of her.
She appears to be in her late sixties or possibly a little older, with a small, frail stature and kind eyes that shine behind thin-framed spectacles.
She’s wearing a gray button-up dress and a pair of loafers, and a habit hides her hair.
“Sister Agatha Moreau?” Leroux approaches her, holding out his hand instinctively.
Sister Moreau smiles warmly, letting her gaze fall to his outstretched hand. For a moment, no one moves. Leroux’s stomach flips with the sudden realization that he may have committed a faux pas. Her grin widens, breaking the tension before it can truly begin.
“Detective John Leroux?” She grasps his hand between both of hers gently. It’s not a handshake but more of a gesture of kindness. It’s like meeting his stuffy handshake with the equivalent of a tender hug. He chuckles, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.
She releases his hand, and he quickly uses it to rub the back of his neck. “That’s right. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Sister.”
“Oh, it’s no bother, Detective. Why don’t we go somewhere quieter?”
He nods, extending his arm. “That would be great. Please, lead the way.”
She walks slowly, but her gait is strong. As they walk through a common living room area, every head turns to mark her presence. She doesn’t cross through a space unnoticed.
“Good morning, Sister Moreau.” A young woman greets her from a couch, a smile crossing her face as she looks up from a book.
“Good morning, Cecily. I’ll see you at book club later, yes?” Sister Moreau steadies herself on a nearby chair, turning to face Cecily, gifting the girl with her full attention.
Cecily nods, holding up her book. “I can’t wait to talk about this one.”
Sister Moreau nods, continuing through to another room.
As they walk down a hall, Leroux takes the time to look around.
Photos line the walls, dozens of them. They are commemorating events, parades, barbecues, and community outreach.
It’s the most wholesome hall of fame he has ever seen.
Countless young faces smile and pose together like family.
Sister Moreau is present in almost all of them.
After getting lost in the photos, he jogs to catch up. “Book club?” he asks with a grin.
Sister Moreau smiles. “Every week, six p.m. sharp.”
“Sounds fun.”
She nods, gesturing to a large bookshelf in a room adjacent to the hallway.
“It’s something I have really enjoyed, actually.
It’s new, but the girls just love it.” She pauses for a moment, looking at the rows of books mixed in with several tattered bibles.
He follows her gaze and is surprised to see a lot of modern titles with some classics scattered throughout.
The spines are all worn, or maybe just well-loved, and there doesn’t seem to be a system or organization at all.
F. Scott Fitzgerald is on one shelf, sandwiched between a romance novel and a Stephen King title that must have sneaked in there.
“Not a soul among us can honestly deny the benefits of getting lost in a book.”
As they reach an office door with Sister Moreau’s name on it, he steps aside to allow her passage first. “I won’t be the foolish soul who argues with you on that one.”
She lets them both in and closes the door behind them. He hears the latch click into place, and she shuffles her way around a big oak desk covered in papers and knickknacks. “You didn’t come here for book club, did you, Detective Leroux?”
“I would lie to you, but you don’t seem like the type of person to believe bullshit,” he says, sinking into the seat across from her.
She shakes her head. “You’d be right. But language, please.”
“Quite an operation you have here.” Leroux chuckles, ignoring her light scolding and gesturing to even more photos lining the office walls.
Sister Moreau nods, folding her hands in front of her on the desk. “Yes, well, I’m sorry that we have to exist at all.”
“I’m sorry too. I think that about my job often, but the world will never cease to abuse the vulnerable.” Leroux’s eyes search hers for something nefarious, any hint of deception. All he sees is sadness, pain for the young women who wander into her center looking for help.
“The world spit our girls out, and we do our best to show them that it doesn’t dictate their worth,” she tells him. There’s a bitter hint in her tone.
“How did you get started here, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Her solemn expression fades as she seems to emerge from a reverie.
“Oh, it’s a long story, Detective Leroux.
I was younger when this began … I spent time at St. Severin’s Church down the street, and I learned how important community is and what small acts of service can do to bring someone from the depths to the light.
” She purses her lips, lost in memories for the moment.
“I served the poor and the hungry, and I heard their stories and showed them compassion. As I got older, I saw what this city was continuing to do to these girls, allowing them to suffer and sometimes just completely fade away. I would see them begin to accept their fates, walking the streets and almost seeking out more abuse. It was all they knew.”
Leroux sits back in his chair, watching her walk through her memories.
He can sense the authenticity in the way she recounts those early days, can see the range of emotions all registering on her face as she feels them.
She watched her city betray the vulnerable.
Now he can see her relive it all in front of him.
“It ate away at me,” she continues. “It consumed my thoughts when I laid my head down at night. I would wake up still thinking about what I’d seen. I questioned my faith, everything I had ever been taught about God and his divine will.”
“I know what that’s like,” Leroux says, unintentionally interrupting her. He finds himself lost in the same series of emotions, absorbing too much sadness and not being able to shed it at the end of the day. “Not the faith part. With all due respect, I lost that long before I became a cop.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She says it without any judgment.
Leroux nods an acknowledgment, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I can relate to the feeling of helplessness. I know what it’s like to have strangers living in your mind, begging you for help that you can’t seem to give.”
“Then you know how deeply it hurts and how important places like this are to young people, to keep them from falling farther down the well. To keep them from spiraling down to a depth we can’t reach.”
“Absolutely, I do.” His instinct says she’s telling the complete truth, that she genuinely cares about these girls.
He doesn’t see a monster lurking beneath a pious facade; he sees goodness.
It’s pure and a little unfamiliar to him.
It’s rare to meet someone who doesn’t possess a hint of corruption in one way or another. Sister Moreau simply doesn’t.
“I started Resurrection House with two girls, and now we have over forty at any given time,” she says proudly.
Leroux smiles. “That’s incredible.”
There is a silence between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s as if they both needed to release their souls’ heavy loads, and now there is a moment to breathe. After a few beats, Sister Moreau’s smile fades, and Leroux breaks the quiet.