Page 4 of Taken from Her (Phoenix Ridge Police Department #4)
E verything was still in the hour before dawn at the harbor.
Lavender woke to the gentle rocking that had lulled her to sleep for fifteen years, but this morning the houseboat's rhythm felt restless against the dock lines.
Mist clung to the water, muffling the sounds that usually comforted her—distant fog horns, the lap of waves against hulls, and seabirds calling their daily chorus to the brightening sky.
Saffron materialized beside her pillow, green eyes reflecting concern that cats seemed to carry for their humans' unspoken troubles. Basil paced the narrow hallway between the bedroom and galley, his gray form ghosting past windows where harbor lights blurred into watercolor smudges.
They knew. Animals always knew when the world had tilted sideways.
Lavender pulled herself from the tangle of quilts—handmade by community members over the years, each one carrying stories and love—and padded barefoot across worn wooden floors that creaked familiar morning greetings.
The boat swayed gently as she moved, a dance she'd learned so thoroughly it had become unconscious.
In the galley, her hands moved through the familiar ritual of tea-making.
Chamomile and lavender, honey from the community garden's hives, water heated in the copper kettle that caught morning light through salt-stained windows.
But her fingers trembled slightly as she measured herbs, muscle memory disrupted by the weight pressing against her chest.
Three women were missing. Three faces that should be settling into their usual café routines this morning, ordering their favorite drinks, and sharing the small victories and daily struggles that wove this community together.
Steam rose from her mug, carrying scents that usually grounded her but today felt insufficient against the tide of helplessness threatening to pull her under.
Tara, who brought her rescue dog every evening after school, both of them seeking comfort after long days.
Isabel, who'd started coming in March, laptop open but attention focused on conversations with other women navigating career changes.
Joanna, who stopped by after pool sessions, chlorine still clinging to her hair while she planned swim lessons for kids who needed to feel strong.
She could picture the empty spaces they'd left behind at the café: Tara's corner table where she graded papers, Isabel's spot by the window, and Joanna's usual seat at the counter. All the networks she'd built and safe spaces she'd created, they hadn't been enough to protect them.
Lavender lit candles with steady hands that belied her inner trembling—white votives arranged on the small altar where photos of community members mixed with crystals and dried herbs.
The ritual created hope as light flickered across familiar faces, women who'd celebrated birthdays and small victories at her café.
The first phone call came easier than expected. Corinne Vernalis answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep and worry.
"Any word?" Corinne asked before Lavender could speak.
"Nothing yet. How are you holding up?"
"Like shit." A pause filled with the sound of coffee brewing, another morning ritual grasping for normalcy. "The police called yesterday and wanted to interview me again. Same questions, same non-answers."
Lavender settled into the cushioned nook where she took difficult calls, watching the harbor lights reflect off water that moved like liquid mercury. "They're trying. Sometimes the system just moves differently than we do."
"Your cop friend—Chief Marten. She’s coming by the café today?"
The question carried weight Lavender wasn't ready to unpack. Diana Marten, all pressed uniform and careful control, studying the community like a puzzle she needed to solve. Professional competence wrapped around something that might be vulnerability, if you knew how to look.
"Probably. She seems…thorough."
Corinne's laugh held no humor. "Thorough doesn't bring Joanna home."
"No," Lavender agreed. "But giving up doesn't either."
They talked for another few minutes—practical things like grocery runs and who was covering Joanna's swim classes—before Corinne’s exhaustion pulled the conversation to a close.
Lavender made two more calls, checking on Isabel's housemate and Tara's sister, each conversation a thread connecting worried hearts across the city.
By the time she'd dressed and gathered supplies for the café, dawn had already tinted the sky. Saffron and Basil supervised from their perch on the galley counter, their green eyes tracking her movements with intensity.
"I know," she told them, scratching behind their ears, and they purred despite the weight in the air. "I'll be careful."
The promise felt hollow even as she spoke it. Careful hadn't protected three women who'd been living their lives with reasonable caution. Careful might not be enough for any of them anymore.
But community care wasn't about being careful. It was about showing up anyway, creating space for healing even when your own heart was breaking, and holding others steady while the ground shifted beneath everyone's feet.
Lavender gathered her keys and the canvas bag that held everything she'd need to transform the café space.
The harbor mist was beginning to lift, revealing a city that looked normal from the outside—the same Victorian houses dotting the hillsides, the same fishing boats heading out for morning runs, and the same promise of coffee and conversation that drew people together.
But underneath the familiar surface, fear moved like an undertow, and it would take everything she had to keep her community from drowning in it.
The café waited for her, chairs stacked on tables like sleeping birds as morning light was beginning to filter through windows that faced the harbor.
Lavender turned the key in the purple door, stepping into the space that had become more than just a business.
It was a refuge, community center, and the beating heart of Phoenix Ridge's lesbian community.
She moved through the familiar routine without conscious thought.
Coffee beans tumbled into the grinder, their rich scent cutting through the lingering lavender oil she'd burned the night before.
The espresso machine warmed with gentle hissing sounds, steam wands testing their pressure.
Pastries from the local bakery were arranged in the display case, their sweet aromas already calling to early risers who would need comfort along with caffeine.
White roses went into the vase on the community board, their pale petals catching light like hope itself.
Around them, Lavender arranged the photos: Tara laughing at some school fundraiser, Isabel presenting at a tech meetup, and Joanna with her arms around a group of kids at the pool.
Not memorial photos, not yet. These were reminders that they were still fighting, still believing in their return.
The espresso machine chimed its readiness, and Lavender prepared each woman’s preferred drink with care. She placed the drinks on the memorial corner, three full cups that would cool untouched, offerings to absence that felt too vast to fill.
Her phone buzzed. Dr. Samira Hassan, texting from the hospital where she'd been pulling extra shifts since the disappearances started.
Community mental health check-in today? Café at 3?
Lavender typed back quickly. Yes. Thank you.
The medical community was stepping up, offering resources for trauma and fear that formal systems couldn't always address. Another thread in the web of care they were weaving around each other, informal networks catching people when official channels failed.
Sunlight moved across the hardwood floors as Lavender adjusted the lighting, checked the sound system, and arranged seating areas to encourage both intimate conversation and larger gatherings. Everything had to feel normal while acknowledging that normal had been shattered three weeks ago.
The plants responded to the morning light, their leaves turning toward windows that overlooked the street where women were already walking in pairs instead of alone and where conversations happened with constant awareness of surroundings.
The jasmine vine that wound around the front window had been a gift from Tara's environmental science class, their way of thanking Lavender for hosting their Earth Day planning meetings.
The purple door would open in fifteen minutes.
Coffee cups would fill hands that needed something to hold.
Conversations would rise and fall like harbor tides, carrying fear and hope in equal measure.
And somehow, Lavender would need to be the steady center of it all, the calm eye of a storm that threatened to scatter everything they'd built.
She lit one more candle, this one for herself to help scrape together any strength she could gather.
The first knock came five minutes before the doors officially opened. Mrs. Georgia Darricott, community elder and retired librarian, stood at the door with her silver hair perfectly arranged and worry etched in the lines around her eyes.
"Early today, aren't we?" Georgia said as Lavender unlocked the door.
"Figured people might need an early start," Lavender replied, stepping aside to let her in.
Georgia's sharp gaze swept the memorial corner, taking in the photos and flowers and untouched drinks. "Any word yet?"
"No, nothing yet."
"Hmm." Georgia settled into her usual armchair, the one with the best view of both the door and the harbor. "The police chief was here yesterday. Interesting woman."
Lavender busied herself with final preparations, not ready to fully acknowledge the weight of that observation. "Coffee?"
"Please. And Lavender?" Georgia's voice carried the authority of someone who'd watched communities weather storms for seven decades. "Whatever's coming, we'll face it together. Like we always have."