Page 2 of Taken from Her (Phoenix Ridge Police Department #4)

Diana felt the familiar tension of making command decisions, but this time it carried unfamiliar weight. Her team was suggesting that her usual investigative approach might be inadequate for this particular case, and she felt it too.

"The café," she said. "Lavender's. It's the community hub where these women spent time and processed what's happening."

"Lavender Larwood," Julia said, recognition in her voice. "She knows everyone, hosts community events, and provides crisis support. If anyone understands the connections between these women and who might want to hurt them, it's her."

Diana had avoided Lavender's Café for precisely the reasons her team was now suggesting she visit it. But three women were missing, and her comfort zone was proving inadequate.

"I'll make contact," Diana announced, even though the decision felt like stepping off solid ground into the unknown where anything could happen. "I’ll establish communication with Lavender Larwood and assess what the community knows that we don't. Hopefully, they’ll reveal something that’ll lead us on the right track. "

Michelle nodded approvingly. "Being a community liaison makes sense. Building trust could unlock information we're not getting through the interviews."

Morgan reopened her laptop. "I can provide technical support for any intelligence that surfaces and analyze patterns from a community perspective instead of just looking at digital forensics."

Julia's expression suggested she understood the significance of Diana's decision beyond its investigative necessity. "Chief, approaching this community requires…flexibility. They respond to authenticity, not authority. It might be worth considering a less formal approach."

Diana paused, recognizing the wisdom in Julia's observation even as it challenged everything she knew about maintaining professional boundaries. "Noted," she said finally. "I'll…adapt as necessary."

Diana gathered the case files, the discomfort of the unfamiliar settling beside the steady pressures of her role.

"Meeting adjourned," she said, straightening her uniform. "I'll report back after I’ve made initial community contact."

As her team dispersed, Diana remained at the whiteboard, studying those three faces that had become more than case files. Somewhere in Phoenix Ridge, someone was studying the lesbian community with predatory intent.

Finding them would require her to enter that community as more than a police officer.

Diana's patrol car felt different as she navigated Phoenix Ridge's streets, familiar territory viewed through a new lens.

She'd driven these roads hundreds of times responding to calls, conducting welfare checks, and maintaining the visible presence that reminded residents their safety mattered.

But today, the Victorian houses with their Painted Lady facades and the eclectic downtown storefronts seemed to belong to a community she was only beginning to understand.

Coastal mist clung to the hillsides, softening the edges of a city she knew in grids and patrol sectors. Salt air drifted through her partially open window, mixing with coffee aromas from local shops where people gathered for reasons beyond simply caffeine.

She passed the entrance to the coastal trail where Tara's hiking boots had been found abandoned. Her dog had returned home alone, still wearing his leash, waiting by the door for someone who wouldn’t come back.

At the next light, Diana caught a glimpse of Isabel's apartment building, its modern lines incongruous among Phoenix Ridge's historical architecture.

Isabel had chosen this city for its tight-knit community after Silicon Valley had burned her out, seeking genuine connection over competition.

Her LinkedIn profile highlighted her professional achievements, but it was the handwritten note found on her kitchen counter—a thank-you from a community member she'd mentored—that revealed what Phoenix Ridge had truly meant to her.

She passed the municipal swimming pool on her left, where Joanna had taught children to swim with the patience of someone who understood that confidence in the water translated to confidence in life.

Parents still brought their kids, but the lessons carried grief, questions about why bad things happened to good people, and whether anywhere was truly safe.

Diana's hands tightened on the steering wheel as radio chatter provided a familiar ambiance. But beneath the radio's mechanical comfort, doubt crept through her thoughts like fog through coastal pines.

Julia's words echoed: They respond to authenticity, not authority.

Three weeks of competent investigating had yielded nothing except growing community fear.

Someone had studied their patterns, learned their routines, and identified vulnerabilities that official interviews couldn't uncover because the knowledge existed in coffee shop conversations and community gathering spaces.

She turned onto the street that would lead to Lavender's Café.

She knew crime statistics for this area, response times, and local ordinances.

But she didn't know which corner market sold the best coffee, which restaurants hosted community events, or which spaces felt like a safe haven for people who had nowhere else they belonged.

The shopping district rose ahead, a space where Victorian buildings had been converted to shops and gathering places, flower boxes overflowed with herbs that scented the morning air, and pedestrians moved in a leisurely pace.

Diana felt the contrast between her patrol car's official presence and the organic community life happening beyond her windshield.

A couple walked hand in hand, stopping to examine art displayed in a gallery window.

A group of women sat at an outdoor table, laptops open but conversation clearly more important than work.

An older woman tended to a community garden, her movements suggesting ownership born from care rather than property.

This was the world Tara, Isabel, and Joanna had chosen—not just as a place to live, but a community to belong to. Someone had violated that sense of safety, turning their sanctuary into a hunting ground.

Diana parked outside a building painted in soft purples and creams with flower boxes bright with herbs and blooms that seemed to welcome rather than merely decorate.

Through the large windows, she saw cozy seating areas, local art on exposed brick walls, and people moving with the easy familiarity of regulars in their chosen space.

Lavender's Café.

Her uniform felt heavier than usual, her badge and radio marking her as an outsider. Diana checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, straightened her shoulders, and reached for the door handle.

The Victorian building housing Lavender's Café stood like a gentle rebellion against institutional conformity. The purple door showed the gentle wear of frequent use, its brass handle polished smooth by countless hands seeking entry to whatever lay beyond.

Diana hesitated on the sidewalk, suddenly aware of how her patrol car dominated the curb space where a vintage bicycle leaned casually against a lamppost, its basket overflowing with asters and dahlias.

The scent of fresh-baked pastries drifted through the open door, mixing with something herbal—lavender, perhaps, or sage. Voices carried in the air, not the clipped exchanges of business but the flowing rhythm of people who had nowhere urgent to be.

Diana adjusted her duty belt, catching fragments of conversation through the glass:

"—told her the city council meeting is Thursday, but you know Maria would want us to?—"

"—Joanna's classes this week, and I think the kids need?—"

Names that belonged to case files, spoken with the intimacy of loss and love.

Through the window, she spotted her first glimpse of Lavender Larwood: tall and graceful, moving between tables with the kind of natural authority that came from genuine care rather than official designation.

Her silver hair caught the morning light as she leaned down to listen to an elderly woman's concerns, one hand resting gently on the woman's shoulder.

Everything about her presence suggested someone who knew how to hold space for others' emotions without being overwhelmed by them.

Diana watched as Lavender straightened, scanning the café with evaluating eyes that seemed to catalog not just who was present but how they were feeling.

When a younger woman at the counter looked uncertain about her order, Lavender moved closer, offering suggestions with the patience of someone who understood that small choices sometimes carried larger weight.

There was something compelling about the way Lavender commanded the space—not through volume or position but through presence itself. Customers gravitated toward her naturally, seeking not just coffee but connection and comfort, the kind of emotional sustenance Diana had never learned to receive.

A burst of laughter from inside the café made Diana realize she'd been standing motionless on the sidewalk, studying the scene like a surveillance operation.

She pushed through the purple door.

The transition from the street to inside the cafe happened immediately—scents of coffee and herbs enveloping her and conversations pausing as heads turned toward the uniformed figure who'd entered their space. It wasn’t hostile attention, just careful assessment, the way a community protects itself while remaining polite.

Diana's boots clicked against hardwood floors that had probably witnessed decades of conversations, arguments, celebrations, and grief.

Local artwork covered exposed brick walls: paintings, photographs, and small sculptures that spoke to creativity fostered rather than merely displayed.

Plants thrived in every corner, their leafy abundance suggesting someone who understood nurturing.