Chapter 18
LEROUX PULLS INTO THE RUN-DOWN parking lot of Resurrection House, careful to avoid the largest pothole he has ever seen.
After he shuts off the engine, the silence closes in on him like a swarm, feeling heavy and smothering.
A mixture of fear and optimism sloshes in his stomach, churning together like bad shellfish.
Melissa’s murder will be a blow to everyone in that place, not least of all Sister Moreau, but he has a newfound hope that they can find Beth and catch the person responsible for their abductions.
The walkway feels longer today, like a plank leading to a black abyss.
Everything before him is threatening and unknown.
He’s done this kind of dance before, and he always ends up the enemy.
It’s human nature to assign blame, and when there’s no suspect, the struggling investigator becomes the easiest target.
He knocks on the door of Resurrection House, but this time he feels like even more of an unwelcome presence than before.
As the sound of the old knocker echoes on the other side of the door, he hears footsteps and murmurs, then notices the curtains in one of the windows get pushed aside to reveal a set of eyes.
The door creaks open, startling him slightly, but a familiar face peers out at him from the opening.
“Hi, Ava,” Leroux says, remembering her as the more inviting one of the group from when he visited the first time.
Today, Ava looks different. She doesn’t greet him with enthusiasm or even kindness. As expected, her face is lined with anger, and she is blocking the entrance with her hand on her hip.
“What do you want?” she asks fiercely.
She’s heard the news.
Now his task will be more difficult. He knew it was a long shot to hope that the news of Melissa’s murder hadn’t made its way to the shelter yet.
He runs his hand over his hair, trying to convey his own genuine sadness. “Listen, I am really sorry to have to come here like this—”
“Then leave,” she says, cutting him off, her mouth a hardened line.
He feels the sting of her anger, and he can’t blame her.
He failed to save Melissa, and their confidence that he would find Beth in time has probably completely eroded.
Seeing the rage in Ava’s face makes him wonder how much they have heard and if it’s accurate or the poisonous rubbish that the internet cooks up for views.
“Look, Ava. We are going to bring Beth home, I swear to it.” He doesn’t know why that kind of promise slips out of his mouth, but it did.
It’s desperation mixed with his own hubris, he supposes, but either way he immediately feels like a chump.
Ava knows damn well that he can’t swear to that, just as much as he knows it.
He has a thread of hope, not a fucking crystal ball.
“Yeah, you’ll bring her home in a body bag.
” She scoffs, crossing her arms in front of her and allowing the door to open a little wider, revealing more angry expressions.
The girls are all looking at him the same way.
It’s likely that they’ve all had countless people in their lives make promises and fail to deliver, and now what do they see standing at their door? Another liar. Another disappointment.
He can feel his gut churn with guilt. This is one of few times in his life when he hasn’t known what to say.
He can’t joke his way out of it or give them a detailed breakdown of why it isn’t his fault, because it doesn’t matter.
He is the representation of someone who was supposed to stop the bad guy, and he didn’t. It’s as simple as that.
“Girls, make yourselves busy, please.” Sister Moreau’s voice is a welcome interruption as she glides into the doorway.
Ava scowls, shooting him one last nasty look before turning on a heel and leaving his sight.
“Sister Moreau,” he says, unsure of what else to say from the stoop.
She nods and gestures for him to come through the doorway. He does, following her down the familiar hall and into her office. This time, there aren’t as many hopes or possibilities hanging in the air for them to grasp at together; there’s just grief.
“I just need to begin by saying I’m incredibly sorry about Melissa,” he spills out as he sits in the chair across from Sister Moreau. The words feel inadequate, yet it’s the only thing he can conjure up that feels like it won’t detonate the whole place like a bomb.
She folds her hands together, a look of sadness washing over her face.
“Thank you, Detective,” she says. “I apologize for the behavior of Ava and the rest of the girls. I don’t want to say they aren’t handling the news well, because I’m unsure how one is supposed to handle this kind of news.
” Her voice trails off, and she fights the pure emotions that threaten to break her carefully crafted surface.
“Please, don’t apologize. They have every right to be angry.”
She shakes her head. “Anger is a wasted state of existence, Detective. I don’t approve of it.” Her voice cracks, and he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
“Listen, I think the guy who did this is the Jeremy from Melissa’s diary.” He lets the information spill out unbridled.
She looks at him, and for the first time, despite her words, he sees pure anger in her eyes. She purses her lips together and does the same with her hands, squeezing them until the knuckles turn white.
“I reported him to your department,” she says, her voice almost a whisper.
He can feel the indictment being thrown at him by those eyes. She blames him, just like everyone else does.
“We are going to do everything we can to bring Beth home safely. I know that sounds hollow now—”
She puts a delicate hand up to stop him. “It does,” she says sternly. “It’s as hollow as I can imagine anything sounding.”
Her voice has a pain to it that rings too familiar to Leroux.
He would love to not know this kind of grief, this kind of hopelessness, and even though he faces it every day, it kills him to hear it here.
There is just something about Sister Moreau’s dedication and faith in these young women that makes it feel like the ultimate betrayal to fail her in such an earth-shattering way.
He just nods, leaning forward with his arms on the desk between them.
“Fair. I just really wanted to tell you in person.” He holds his hands up, not knowing what to do or say next. “I think—” He pauses, watching as her expression displays something resembling curiosity. Then he makes the decision to tell her: “I think there is a connection to Jeremy Rose.”
She almost scoffs, but she catches herself, instead pursing her lips again. “Please explain to me how that’s possible, Detective.”
“I can’t give you the specifics, and I hesitate to ask you to trust me.” He hopes that by admitting his weakness, he may appeal to what she saw in him during their first meeting.
She stares back at him, wordless.
“But I really believe we have a chance to bring Beth home.” He chooses his words carefully this time, not wanting to promise anything here, not with her, not after seeing Ava’s betrayed expression.
Her eyes tell him everything, an entire story of grief and regret playing out behind cloudy blue irises. But he sees something else there too, a sliver of hope that she’s trying to keep quiet, not wanting to feed it lest it grow.
“La confiance se gagne en gouttes et se perd en litres,” she says, surprising him with a perfect sophisticated Parisian accent.
For a moment, he’s taken aback. His eyes widen, and he’s sure that it registers on his face. It’s quickly followed by a rush of shame. Who is he for thinking a nun could never be so worldly?
“What does that mean?” he asks, wearing a look of impressed inquiry.
She shakes her head gently, her eyes falling to her hands on the desk. “Trust is gained in drops but lost in liters.”
Her words are heavy with an implication that their connection has been frayed.
They sit in his chest, burrowing in, giving way to immense guilt, something he has always tried to keep at the perimeter of his mind.
He tries not to let it in, but now it’s like the dam has broken, and rampant guilt flows in.
“Message received,” he says, feeling a pang of frustration. He stands up, ready to leave, to stop this tidal wave. “I am following my intuition on this one, and I think we have a chance. I can’t promise anything, but please try to keep the faith.”
She nods, a look of sadness crossing her face again. “I will do my best if you do yours, Detective.”
He spins around, walking toward the door before turning back to face her.
“Is there anything Melissa told you about this Jeremy guy? Any physical features or anything else besides what we already talked about?” It’s a half-hearted Hail Mary.
He’s trying to siphon anything he can out of a tapped tank.
“I would have told you if she had described him, Detective,” she answers swiftly, her words hitting him harshly.
He nods, disappointment blooming in his chest, then something suddenly clicks. “Did Melissa tell you exactly when she met him?”
Sister Moreau seems to consider the question carefully, her eyes raising to the ceiling as if consulting with someone he can’t see. After a moment, they meet his again. “It was September.”
“September of this year?” he asks.
She nods. “Yes.”
Confirmed: It’s not Trudeau.
He gives her a soft smile before walking down the hallway, trying his best to avoid the despondent faces that he passes. He’s had enough guilt for one afternoon and hopes to just nurse the wounds from Sister Moreau’s flogging and move forward with the information extracted from their brief meeting.