Chapter 6

  Ellie’s face freezes mid-breath, her lips parted just enough to suggest words that never made it out — white powder.

  The soft jazz around her dissolves into a dull ringing in her ears.

  “Don’t be too surprised,” the detective says gently, almost apologetic, as if he’s just burst one of her tightly held illusions.

  “This is what we’re trained to do — to keep our minds open, not fixate on just one possibility.”

  Ellie still doesn’t move. But everything in her stillness screams.

  “And that doesn’t rule her out as a suspect,” Detective Rook adds, his tone steady. “I just want you to be clear about their relationship. That’s all.”

  They sit in silence for a moment, the soft clinking of ice in the detective’s glass marking the passing of time. Ellie’s fingers brush over the sticky fingerprints on her water bottle, her mind racing faster than her pulse.

  “I want to help,” she says, quietly but firmly.

  Detective Rook looks up, narrowing his eyes. “Help?”

  “Yes,” she says, straightening her back. “I want to be part of the investigation.”

  The day she was accused of tampering with Madam Odette’s drink flashes through her mind. How Madam Odette sprinkled white powder into her own cup and gave Ellie that eerie smile.

  And now — white powder found around Mr. Todd’s body.

  Madam Odette has something to do with the murder.

  Even if she was Mr. Todd’s sister.

  Even so.

  Detective Rook lets out a short breath — not quite a laugh.

  “This isn’t a citizen patrol, Ellie. I can’t bring civilians into an active murder case.”

  “But I know things…”

  “You know fragments,” he interrupts, his tone calm but firm. “Gut feelings. Things you can’t fully explain. I need evidence, not hunches.”

  These aren’t gut feelings, Ellie screams inwardly.

  But she can’t quite explain the buried memories — the things that tug at the edge of her mind.

  She knows… but she can’t say it.

  Not to him.

  He’ll just treat her like the others do at the café — like a lunatic.

  If he knows she has lapses in her memory.

  Ellie’s jaw tightens. “Then let me find it. I’ll find the evidence you need.”

  Rook sets his glass down. For a moment, he studies her like a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

  “This isn’t some mystery novel,” he says. “People get hurt. People get killed.”

  She doesn’t flinch, sensing the softening in his tone. “I know.”

  He pauses.

  “You’re emotionally involved — even if I don’t know why. That clouds judgment,” he adds.

  Ellie’s voice is quieter now, but unwavering. “Maybe. But I’m already in this, aren’t I?”

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  Rook leans back in his chair, his gaze sharp.

  She doesn’t look like much — nervous, distant, too quiet.

  But there’s something behind her eyes.

  Something useful.

  He sighs — a sigh of resignation.

  “You’ll keep me updated,” he says finally. “You’ll follow my instructions. No wandering off on your own.”

  Ellie nods quickly.

  “And if I say stop…”

  “Then I’ll stop,” Ellie finishes for him.

  Rook stares at her for another beat, then extends a hand.

  “Welcome to the shadows, then.”

  The meeting with Detective Rook feels like something out of a dream — not one of the strange ones where she has paws and slips through dark alleyways, but the kind that clings to her skin long after it ends. A conversation she wasn’t supposed to have.

  The thought makes her pulse quicken — not with fear, but with something closer to anticipation.

  By the time she steps out of the bistro, the sky has dimmed further. Rook offers to walk her home, but she declines. She needs the time. The space. The silence.

  She’s actually helping with a murder investigation.

  Actually helping.

  But it isn’t the murder that tugs at her thoughts like a hook.

  It’s her.

  Madam Odette.

  The way her name sounds in the detective’s mouth. The way he dismissed her — and then didn’t.

  The white powder. The tears. The silence between sips of coffee.

  Ellie wraps her arms beneath her armpits as she walks — though it isn’t cold.

  The cracked pavement grounds her, though the world around her feels blurred, like it’s been smudged by an unseen hand. Soft greys. A hazy orange glow.

  And then — she’s at her door.

  She doesn’t remember the walk. One moment she’s under flickering streetlamps, Rook’s voice still curling in her ears. The next, she’s holding her key. The metal feels cold. Unfamiliar.

  Did she take the long route again?

  She isn’t sure.

  She opens the door. Drops her bag. Turns on the light.

  Or maybe she doesn’t.

  She sits at the edge of the bed — maybe for a moment.

  Time folds. Her thoughts drift like fog.

  She blinks.

  The next blink stretches too long.

  And when her eyes open again — she isn’t in her bed anymore.

  She’s lower to the ground. Her body feels lighter, her movement fluid, silent.

  She is a cat again.

  Once more, she slips from her house through the window.

  And again, when she lands, it isn’t the dull, neglected corridor of her flat.

  It’s that neighbourhood.

  The one that visits her in sleep.

  She pads forward through the alleyways, the silence thick and watchful.

  Nothing here ever makes sound. No wind. No footsteps. Not even hers.

  And tonight, for the first time, she sees a light.

  A window glows with faint yellow warmth.

  It doesn’t spill. It hovers. Still. Contained. Too bright, too whole, too awake.

  The houses lean in like listeners, and the shadows hold their breath.

  She follows the light.

  A doorway sits half-open at the end of the lane — not inviting, but not closed either.

  She creeps forward.

  The scent reaches her first: lavender, old wood, and something faintly sweet — almost familiar.

  Then she sees her.

  An old woman sits in a rocking chair just inside, a patchwork blanket over her knees. Curly silver hair glows in the yellow light. She gazes outward like she’s been expecting someone.

  When her eyes meet Ellie’s, she doesn’t startle.

  “Well, there you are,” she says softly, as if Ellie has been gone for years. Her voice is smooth and quiet, like a lullaby remembered from childhood.

  “Hungry, are you?”

  She lifts a porcelain teacup from the side table — delicate, cracked in a perfect crescent — and places it gently on the floor.

  Milk. Still warm.

  Ellie hesitates.

  The woman hums as she rocks — a tune Ellie can’t name, but her tail flicks at the sound.

  She’s sure she’s heard it before.

  “Come along, then,” the woman says. “I won’t bite.”

  Ellie takes a careful step forward.

  This is the first time she meets someone here.

  The first time someone speaks to her.

  And though everything about the woman appears kind —

  Ellie’s whiskers quiver with a quiet warning she doesn’t understand.

  A name flickers in her feline mind. Mrs. Lys.

  She doesn’t remember hearing it. But she knows it.

  As she lowers her head to drink, the warmth of the milk spreads across her tongue — sweet, oddly comforting.

  Ellie begins to relax… the warmth of the milk lulling her deeper…

  Then, without warning — a scream tears through the dream.

  “HELP ME!!!”

  Ellie jerks up, eyes wide.

  The window darkens.

  Mrs. Lys stops humming.

  And the neighbourhood holds its breath.