Chapter Eight
The sidewalks were slick with moonlight.
A breeze threaded through the trees, carrying the scent of wet bark and pavement along with it. Mercer walked a half-step behind, his shoulder brushing hers now and then where the sidewalk narrowed. His uniform jacket caught the glow of the streetlamps, his badge glinting, edges damp with misting rain.
Their footsteps echoed softly in the stillness.
“You didn’t have to walk me the whole way,” Ivy said, her voice quiet, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
Mercer didn’t look at her, he kept his gaze focused ahead.
“Didn’t feel right,” He said finally, “Letting you walk back after all that.”
The silence between them settled back in, comfortable now. Their footsteps fell into rhythm, two sets of sound folding into one.
A gust of wind swept down the street, sending damp leaves skittering along the curb. Ivy tucked her hands deeper into her coat pockets, eyes following the tangled silhouette of branches overhead.
“Can I ask you something?”
Mercer didn’t answer, he only glanced in her direction.
“Has this ever happened before?” she asked. “Someone disappearing like this? No body, no sign?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Two years ago,” he said. “Juliet.”
The name hung in the air between them.
“She owned a plant nursery just outside town. South end.”
Ivy’s brow furrowed. “The one Rosalie works at?”
He nodded. “Yeah. She took over after Juliet went missing.”
His voice softened, barely. “Someone had to take care of it. All of those plants, flowers…”
The tenderness in his tone caught Ivy off guard.
“You knew her?”
Mercer’s eyes stayed forward. “Well enough.”
“What happened?”
“She locked up one night and never made it home.” A pause. “We searched for weeks. But the trail went cold.”
His hand flexed slightly at his side, like there was more to the story he wouldn’t say.
“Do you think it’s connected?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “But we’re not letting this one go cold.”
They walked on. The houses grew older, spaced wider apart, porches sagging behind tangled fences. Ivy’s cottage waited at the far end of the street, tucked beneath overgrown trees and the flicker of a single porch light.
As they neared the walk, a dark shape moved behind the front window, a black cat, perched on the sill, watching with still, unblinking eyes.
She stopped near the gate. “This is me.”
Mercer gave the street a glance, then turned back to her. “You sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine,” she said, and almost meant it. “Really.”
He didn’t move right away.
“And I meant what I said,” she added. “I want to help.” She turned to face Mercer, meeting his eyes. “We’ll figure out what happened to him.”
Mercer held her gaze.
“You sure you want to be part of this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then I’ll see you at the station. Eight sharp.” He paused. “And you don’t go looking around anywhere without me. Got it?”
“Got it.”
He nodded, turning to leave.
“Goodnight, Greer,” he said over his shoulder.
“Goodnight, Chief.”
Then he was gone, boots fading into the hush of the street.
The house was still when she stepped inside.
She left the lights off. She slipped out of her coat, and kicked off her boots as she made her way down the hall to her room.
By the time she pulled the blankets around her, the wind outside had quieted, but something in her chest still stirred, a shadow of a feeling she couldn’t name.
She lay still, staring into the dark, reflecting on the day.
Eventually, her eyes grew heavy.
In the dream, she was in the woods.
The trees rose like black columns, their bare branches knitting together above her, shutting out the sky. The ground was soft beneath her feet, muffled, like walking on soaked fabric.
She moved forward, calling Lily’s name, but the sound came out thin, swallowed by the trees before it could go far.
Something caught her eye just off the path.
A purse, half-buried in leaves. Lily’s. She recognized it instantly. The sunflower stitched on the front was frayed at the edges, the yarn faded from all those years she kept it. Around it, items were strewn about: a lipstick snapped in half, a torn receipt, a wallet left open like someone had tried to rifle through it in a hurry.
And blood. Thin streaks, leading away through the trees like something had been dragged.
Ivy followed, heart thudding hard inside her chest.
The forest opened into a small clearing. At its center sat a small pond, it’s water unnaturally still. Mercer stood talk at the edge, his back to her, his shoulders tense.
He didn’t move when she stepped closer.
“Mercer?” she asked.
He didn’t turn her way.
“Look.”
She moved beside him and stared into the water.
Her breath caught.
Lily was there, in the reflection, not beneath it. Her face hovered just below the surface, pale and wide-eyed. Her fingers were splayed as if she were trying to push through. Her mouth moved soundlessly.
Ivy dropped to her knees at the water’s edge. “Do you see her?”
“I see her,” Mercer said quietly. “But it’s too late.”
The reflection darkened. Around Lily’s image, shadows began to pool, curling inward like smoke filling a room.
Ivy reached out to touch the water.
Lily’s reflection mirrored the gesture: palms still pressed on the inside, her eyes locked on Ivy’s.
The moment their hands would have met, the surface rippled.
And Ivy woke, heart pounding, the dream already slipping from her like water through her fingers.
The police station was smaller than she expected.
It was bright and orderly. The kind of place where everything had its own particular spot. Forms were stacked neatly, phones were ringing softly behind closed doors, and the faint scent of black coffee kissed the air.
A row of lights hummed overhead, casting a glow across the scuffed linoleum floors and neatly labeled doors.
A bulletin board near the front desk displayed missing pet flyers, blood drive announcements, and faded notices for community events. A row of gray plastic chairs lined the wall beneath the window, each one identical, slightly too firm, and clearly not meant for lingering.
It was plain, but efficient.
She stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
“Greer. You’re early.”
She turned toward the voice.
Mercer stood just outside a door marked Records, shoulders squared, badge catching the light. His expression was composed, focused. The version of him she’d met last night was gone. This was the Chief of Police.
“Just trying to make a good impression,” she said.
He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes flickered.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”
Moonlit Novella 
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