Page 7 of Taken from Her (Phoenix Ridge Police Department #4)

T he fluorescent lights felt sharper at the end of her shift, their harsh buzz cutting through the accumulated weight of another fruitless day.

Diana sat behind her desk as shadows lengthened outside her office windows, case files scattered across the surface like accusations she couldn't answer.

The coffee in her mug had gone cold hours ago, leaving behind the bitter dregs of a day that had yielded nothing but dead ends.

Phoenix Ridge stretched beyond her window, evening light highlighting the coastal cliffs a shade of gold that mocked her mood.

Somewhere out there, three women were missing—had been missing for three weeks—while she sat surrounded by evidence that led nowhere and interviews that revealed nothing new.

She picked up the first file, Tara Brymer's photo staring back at her with that captured moment of laughter from a school fundraiser.

Diana had spent the morning re-interviewing Tara's colleagues, her neighbors, anyone who might have noticed something unusual.

They were professional conversations that yielded professional responses: "She seemed fine," "Nothing out of the ordinary," and "We already told the other officers. "

The same responses her team had been getting for three weeks.

Diana's jaw tightened as she flipped to Isabel Navarro's file.

Diana's afternoon had been spent combing through Isabel's digital footprint again, searching for patterns that Detective Morgan Rivers had already analyzed twice.

Email timestamps, social media activity, and credit card transactions—all painting a picture of normalcy until the moment Isabel simply vanished.

Her phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through the station's evening quiet.

"Chief Marten."

"Diana, it's Agent Laurence Osterberry from the Bureau." The voice carried the crisp authority of someone accustomed to federal resources and jurisdiction disputes. "I've been reviewing the Phoenix Ridge missing persons cases. We're prepared to offer our full task force support."

Diana's free hand found the stress point between her eyebrows. "I appreciate the offer, Agent Osterberry, but?—"

"Chief, there are three missing women with targeted selection and sophisticated planning. This has all the hallmarks of a serial predator. We have profilers, analysts, and surveillance capabilities your department doesn't possess."

Through her window, Diana watched a couple walking hand in hand down the street, moving with the careful awareness that had become common since the disappearances started.

Federal task forces would mean roadblocks, media attention, and investigation methods that would send the community underground faster than the Phoenix Ridge fog rolled in from the ocean.

"The community is already skittish," Diana said carefully. "A heavy federal presence might compromise the cooperation we're building."

"Cooperation?" Agent Osterberry’s tone sharpened. "Chief, with respect, three weeks of local cooperation hasn't produced results. Sometimes communities need to understand that safety requires accepting outside help."

Diana's grip tightened on the phone. Osterberry wasn't wrong about their lack of results, but he was wrong about everything else. The community wasn't failing to cooperate; they were protecting themselves in ways that federal agents would never understand.

"Give me another week," Diana said. "If we don't see progress, I'll consider federal assistance."

"Your call, Chief. But time isn't on your side here."

The line went dead, leaving Diana staring at the phone. Agent Osterberry’s implicit threat hung in the air: produce results or have jurisdiction taken away. But she knew that federal agents conducting interviews in this community would be like using a sledgehammer to repair a watch.

She set the phone down and reached for the notes she'd taken during her conversation with Lavender. Not official case documentation, but her attempt to capture information that wouldn't fit in standard police reports.

Lavender had shown her patterns the official investigation had missed: all three women had felt watched, had changed their routines, and had shared concerns with friends rather than police.

Someone with intimate knowledge of how this community responded to threats was using that knowledge against them.

Diana studied her handwritten notes, remembering how Lavender's fingers had moved across the keyboard in that back room, pulling up data that painted a clearer picture than weeks of professional investigation.

Timeline entries, photo analysis, and communication patterns—all collected through conversational networks.

The intelligence was solid, and the sources were unimpeachable. But the methods were completely contrary to everything Diana had been trained to trust.

Her desk phone rang again. This time, the caller ID showed Detective Julia Scott's extension.

"Chief, are you still in the office?"

"Unfortunately. What do you have?"

"Another interview with Joanna's swimming students. Kids are scared, parents are angry, and everyone keeps asking the same question."

Diana rubbed her temples. "Which is?"

"When are we going to catch whoever's doing this? I keep giving them the standard response about ongoing investigations, but it's not enough anymore."

Through her window, Diana watched the afternoon light turn golden and wane. In three hours, she was supposed to attend a community meeting at Lavender's Café. The thought made her stomach clench with anticipation and dread.

"Julia, how comfortable are you with non-standard investigation methods?"

"Depends on what you mean by non-standard."

Diana looked at her notes again, at the information that had been gathered from coffee shop conversations and informal networks. "There’s a community meeting tonight at seven o'clock in Lavender's Cafe. Lavender suggested I show up more…authentic."

Julia was quiet for a moment. "Chief, you know authenticity might mean admitting we don't have all the answers?"

"Three women are missing, Julia. Maybe it's time to admit that."

After Julia hung up, Diana sat alone with the weight of decision settling around her shoulders. Her usual methods had failed, and her professional expertise was insufficient. The community needed something from her that she wasn't sure she knew how to provide.

But Lavender had offered partnership, real cooperation between official resources and informal networks. Tonight would be her chance to see if she could bridge worlds that had never truly connected.

When it was nearly seven, Diana gathered the case files, straightened her uniform, and checked her reflection in the dark window. Tonight, she would have to discover if there was anything underneath the uniform.

The station's evening quiet followed her out into the Phoenix Ridge dusk, where streetlights were beginning to flicker on and the shopping district waited for her.

Time to find out if she could learn to speak a language that had nothing to do with authority and everything to do with the kind of connection she'd spent years avoiding.

When she got to the café, it had been transformed.

Diana paused outside the purple door, studying the warm light spilling through windows that usually revealed scattered tables and casual conversation.

Tonight, chairs were arranged in circles, candles replaced the overhead fluorescents, and the scent of chamomile tea drifted into the evening air like a promise of calm that Diana knew she wouldn't feel.

Through the glass, she counted thirty-plus people—more than she'd expected, faces she recognized from patrol routes and incident reports now gathered in intimate proximity.

Their voices carried different weight here, not the careful politeness of official interactions but the raw honesty of people who knew their community had been violated.

Diana's hand found her badge, fingers tracing the edges.

In three weeks of investigation, she'd interviewed witnesses in sterile conference rooms and taken statements in official settings where her authority provided a comfortable distance.

Tonight, she was entering their space, their rules, their emotional territory.

The purple door opened before she could knock.

Lavender stood in the doorway, silver hair catching the candlelight, wearing flowing fabrics in deep blues that made her seem part of the evening itself. Her smile was brief but genuine, professional welcome layered with something that might have been encouragement.

"Diana," she said, voice carrying just enough warmth to ease the knot in Diana's stomach. "Thank you for coming."

Diana stepped inside, immediately aware of how conversations paused, heads turned, and the energy shifted around her. It wasn’t hostility so much as polite evaluation.

"Everyone," Lavender's voice carried easily across the space, "Chief Diana Marten is here to share what she can about the investigation and to listen to your concerns."

Diana found herself guided toward the center of the main circle, acutely conscious of how her boots reverberated against hardwood floors that usually absorbed the softer footsteps of people who belonged here.

She recognized faces from her mental catalog of Phoenix Ridge residents.

There was Mrs. Molly Holstead, the elderly local librarian who'd lived here for decades, watching Diana with sharp eyes that missed nothing.

Brianna and Rose, the young couple who'd been together since college, held hands with the fierce protectiveness of people in love during dangerous times.

And there, in the second row, sat Corinne Vernalis.

Diana's stomach knotted as she met Corinne's gaze. Joanna's partner, the woman with dark circles under eyes that held barely contained rage and desperation.

"Three weeks," Corinne said before Diana could speak, her voice cutting through the careful quiet. "Three weeks, and you have nothing. What aren't you telling us?"