Page 5 of Taken from Her (Phoenix Ridge Police Department #4)

The promise hung in the air as more people showed up at the purple door, familiar faces ready to transform fear into the fierce love that would hold their community together when everything else fell apart.

By eight thirty, the café buzzed with subdued energy.

Conversations happened in clusters—three women at the corner table comparing notes about changed routines and two others by the window discussing which streets felt safer for evening walks.

Cups clinked against saucers with unusual care, as if the normal sounds of morning might shatter something fragile.

Lavender moved between tables, coffee pot in hand, reading the room like she'd learned to do over fifteen years of hosting community space.

Hazel Skadson sat alone at table four, laptop open but untouched, staring at her phone.

Elle Kearsley had claimed the booth by the back wall, positioned where she could see everyone who entered.

Regular customers who usually spread throughout the café had gravitated toward each other, seeking comfort in proximity.

"Any updates from the police?" asked Sam Moscroft, looking up from her tablet where she'd been scrolling through local news coverage.

"Nothing official," Lavender said, topping off Sam's coffee. "But they're working on the case."

"Working on it how?" Priya Sharma, who taught at the same school as Tara, said. "Because three weeks feels like a long time for no leads."

Lavender set the coffee pot on the nearest table.

Around the café, conversations quieted as they focused their attention on her.

This was how information moved through their community—not through official channels but through coffee shop discussions where people felt safe asking questions that mattered.

"Chief Marten seems thorough," Lavender said carefully. "She’s using a different approach than we've seen before."

"Thorough how?" Elle's voice carried an edge that hadn't been there a month ago. "Because they’ve been gone three weeks, and all we're getting is 'the investigation is ongoing.'"

Corinne entered through the threshold, hair still damp from her morning shower, dark circles under eyes betraying sleepless nights. The café's energy shifted as people noticed her—Joanna's partner, the one living the nightmare they all feared.

Lavender intercepted her before she could claim a table. "Coffee's on me today."

"Thanks." Corinne's voice sounded scraped raw. "Any chance you have something stronger?"

"Irish coffee coming up."

While Lavender prepared the drink, conversations resumed in hushed tones.

She caught fragments: plans for buddy systems, discussions about self-defense classes, debates over whether increased police presence helped or made things worse.

Fear was practical here, translated into changed behaviors and safety protocols rather than helpless anxiety.

Georgia Darricott held court around her armchair, dispensing wisdom to a small group that included two women Lavender didn't recognize—friends of friends, drawn by the need for community during the crisis.

"Happened in '89 too," Georgia was saying, her voice carrying the authority of lived experience. "Different perpetrator, same kind of targeting. The community came together then, and we'll do it again now."

"What stopped it in '89?" asked one of the newcomers.

"A combination of things: good police work and community vigilance, mostly. And the bastard made a mistake. Point is, we didn't let fear scatter us. It made us stronger instead."

Lavender delivered Corinne's Irish coffee and settled into the empty chair beside her. Around them, the café hummed with purposeful energy—not the relaxed morning rhythm of better times, but the focused attention of people organizing.

"How are you holding up?" Lavender asked quietly.

Corinne wrapped both hands around her mug. "Some days are better than others. Yesterday was shit. The police wanted to go through Joanna's things again, looking for…I don't know what."

"Did they find anything useful?"

"Not that they told me. But your police chief, she's different. She asked me about Joanna's routines, who she trusted, and what made her feel safe. It went deeper than just facts and timelines."

Lavender filed that information away. Diana Marten was adapting her approach, trying to understand the women as people rather than case files. Whether that would be enough remained to be seen.

The bell above the door chimed as two more women entered: Racquel Norster and Jordan Yatz, both in their early thirties, both looking around the café with the hyperawareness that had become common. They found seats at the counter where they could watch the room.

"The morning rush is different now," Racquel observed, accepting coffee from Lavender. "Everyone’s checking everyone else out."

"It’s safer that way," Jordan replied. "My girlfriend wanted me to skip the café altogether and find somewhere less…obvious."

"Obvious how?"

"You know. Less gay and visible. This is the kind of place someone might come hunting."

The words hung in the air, giving voice to fears that had been circulating in whispered tones for weeks. Lavender felt the café's energy shift—not toward panic, but toward the kind of clarity that came from naming difficult truths.

"Is that what we're doing?" Priya asked from across the room. "Hiding?"

"Some of us don't have that option," Corinne said, her voice carrying across the space. "Some of us are exactly who we are, and changing that isn't possible, even if we wanted to."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the café. This was the conversation they'd been building toward—not whether to be afraid, but how to be afraid without losing themselves and their identity in the process.

Lavender stood, moving to the center of the room where everyone could see her. "So what do we do? How do we stay safe without disappearing?"

The question opened the floodgates. Suggestions came from every direction: walking in pairs, varying routines, sharing schedules with trusted friends, and checking in via text at predetermined times.

Practical solutions from people who understood that safety was something they'd always had to create for themselves instead of relying on a system that often failed people.

Through the front window, Lavender noticed a patrol car moving slowly down the street.

Not unusual; there had been an increased police presence since the disappearances started.

But something about the careful way the officer scanned the café made her wonder if this was part of Diana Marten's new approach.

The conversation continued around her, but Lavender found herself watching the street, thinking about the thorough police chief and the complicated relationship between protection and surveillance.

Change was coming. She could feel it in the way her community was reacting, in the careful questions Diana had asked yesterday, and in the shift she saw from helpless fear toward organized response.

The question was whether change would come fast enough to bring these three women home alive.

The bell above the purple door chimed, and conversations stuttered to a halt.

Chief Diana Marten stepped into the café, her pressed uniform a sharp contrast against the soft textures and warm colors that defined Lavender's space.

She paused just inside the doorway, dark eyes sweeping the room with critical assessment as she cataloged faces and read the energy that had shifted the moment she appeared.

Lavender felt the shift like a temperature drop.

Shoulders tensed at nearby tables. Conversations that had been flowing freely moments before became careful and measured.

The community's protective instincts had been activated, subtle but unmistakable, their backs straightening and attention focusing, the kind of wary evaluation that happened when an official authority presence entered an unofficial space.

Diana's boots clicked against the hardwood floor as she approached the counter, each step marking her as an outsider in a space where most people moved in stocking feet or soft-soled shoes. Her duty belt caught the morning light.

"Chief Marten." Lavender kept her voice neutral, professional. Around them, she could feel her regulars watching, ready to intervene if their space felt threatened. "Coffee?"

"Please." Diana's hands rested on the counter, steady and capable. Not the nervous fidgeting Lavender had seen from other officers who'd ventured into community spaces, but the controlled stillness of someone accustomed to command. "I'd like to discuss the investigation again."

Lavender reached for a mug, noticing how Diana's attention never stopped moving. Even while speaking directly to her, the police chief maintained awareness of the room's dynamics, the way conversations had quieted, the protective attention directed their way.

"What can I get you?" Lavender asked, gesturing toward the menu board.

Diana's pause was brief but telling. In her world, coffee was fuel: black, efficient, consumed without ceremony. But she was learning to navigate different territory now, recognizing that even simple transactions carried deeper significance.

"Something strong," Diana said finally.

Lavender prepared the drink with deliberate movements. Dark roast with hints of chocolate and earth, nothing fancy but substantial enough to match Diana's straightforward demeanor.

"Tara always ordered a lavender honey latte," Lavender said as she worked, aware that conversations around the café had resumed in careful whispers.

"It was a sweet comfort after dealing with teenagers all day.

Isabel preferred our strongest espresso—fuel for her morning coding sessions.

Joanna liked chai with oat milk, something warming after pool workouts. "