Page 17 of The Sister's Curse
Monica and I stood on the doorstep of Leah’s house, the parsonage for the Greenwood Kingdom Church.
The church itself sat on the outskirts of Bayern County, on a two-lane county road tracking the snaking path of the Copperhead River. It was a new-build megachurch, resembling a warehouse more than a traditional church, surrounded by a massive parking lot and a few limp attempts at landscaping. The parking lot was empty at this time of day.
The parsonage was tucked back on the property behind the church. A newly constructed home stood overlooking the river. Having a parsonage so close wasn’t common in modern times. Centuries ago, priests and parsons would live on church grounds.
There was a car in the driveway, a mid-eighties Mercedes, glossy and black. It seemed out of place next to the new build.
The front door, painted red, was closed. We could hear a male voice leading prayer within, punctuated by female voices announcing: “Amen.”
I rapped on the door. The voices within died, and a girl answered. She was maybe fifteen, dressed in a long-sleeved floral dress, with her blond hair tied back in braids. No makeup. “Yes?”
“I’m Lt. Anna Koray, with the Bayern County Sheriff’s Office. This is Captain Monica Wozniak. We wanted to come by to see how Leah was doing.”
Something flitted across her face as I spoke. Wordlessly, she opened the door wide and ushered us inside.
The interior was decorated in gray and white, looking like a doctor’s office. Well, except for the framed Bible quotes and the crosses decorating the walls.
I stared at the cross made of railroad spikes above one of the doors. That looked familiar.
Beyond that, the place was sterile. I glanced into the kitchen, with white quartz countertops. The living room had white couches and a wall-mounted television.
Leah Sims sat on a couch. Her gaze was focused on the clock twitching on the opposite wall. Her eyes were red, and she was dressed in a denim jumper dress brushing her ankles. I noticed that, unlike last night, there was no smear of makeup on her face now. Her arms were covered by a long-sleeved T-shirt. Her hair was braided away from her face, and her hands were clasped before her. A pearl ring gleamed on her finger. Two teenage girls sat on either side of her on the couch, similar in dress to the girl who’d answered the door.
A reedy man with round glasses stood up from a recliner at the head of the room. He was holding a Bible.
“I’m Pastor Quentin Sims.” He reached out with a cool hand to shake mine. “Leah’s father.”
I forced the neutral expression on my face to remain unruffled. I recognized him from the high school yearbook photos of Jeff Sumner’s accused accomplices in the disappearance of Dana Carson, and from the Sumners’ wedding pictures. I bit my tongue and introduced myself and Monica.
“I’m very sorry to hear about what happened to Mason. It’s truly a tragedy. I’ve been praying with Jeff.”
“He’s a member of your church?” I asked.
“Yes. He and Drema have been members for years. Jeff and I go way back.”
Interesting.While Monica made small talk, my gaze drifted to the girls. Leah sat, unmoving, on the couch. Her gaze was vacant, staring into space. One of the girls smoothed her hair behind her ears. She and the other girl were wearing pearl rings that matched Leah’s. The girl who had answered the door sat on the floor at Leah’s feet. She also had a ring.
“Hi, Leah,” I began, but she didn’t answer me.
“She’s been like this since last night,” the blond girl whispered, holding Leah’s hand. “She won’t eat. She won’t sleep. She cried for hours.”
I exhaled. Leah had been chatty enough last night. What had shut her down? I didn’t see any lawyers in the room.
Just the father.
“I’m Anna.” I extended my hand to the girls, who shyly introduced themselves: Rebecca, Sarah, and Elizabeth. Rebecca had answered the door, Sarah was the blond girl, and Elizabeth sat on Leah’s left. Her long brown hair had been styled into space buns, and I detected the sheen of lip gloss on her mouth. She looked the part, perfunctorily, but I detected a hint of rebellion.
Monica and I sat on a love seat across from the girls. The clock ticked loudly above us. There was a statue of a pair of prayinghands on the mantel. No family pictures of the pastor or Leah, I observed. There was one portrait, of a woman holding a baby.
Pastor Sims followed my gaze. “That’s my late wife, Nora. I lost her to cancer several years ago.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.
Leah’s face twisted, and she blurted: “She should have lived.”
“It was God’s will that she be taken from us to a better place—” Pastor Sims began.
Leah’s lip curled. “It wasn’t God’s will that she didn’t go to the doctor.”
