Page 9 of Taken from Her (Phoenix Ridge Police Department #4)

Diana's hands shook slightly as she reached for the back of a chair, steadying herself against furniture that suddenly felt more solid than her own foundations. "You think I don't care?"

Lavender stepped close enough that Diana could see the concern in her eyes, the way she seemed to lean forward as if offering something Diana wasn't sure she knew how to accept.

"I think you care so much it terrifies you," Lavender said softly.

"You're damn right it terrifies me." The words exploded out of Diana before she could stop them, years of careful control shattering like glass. "I wake up every morning seeing their faces as I review their case notes and pore over details to see what we missed."

Diana's voice cracked slightly, professional composure dissolving under the weight of admission she'd never made to anyone, including herself.

"I carry every unsolved case, every family I couldn't help, every woman who trusted me to keep her safe and ended up in a case file instead.

" Her hands clenched into fists. "You want to know why I keep my distance?

Because caring too much makes you useless when people need you most. Because if I let myself feel everything you're asking me to feel, I won't be able to think clearly enough to save anyone. "

The café fell silent except for the distant ocean and Diana's uneven breathing. She stared at Lavender, horrified by what she'd revealed and by the vulnerability she'd just exposed to someone who could weaponize it against her.

But Lavender didn't look triumphant or satisfied at having broken through Diana's defenses. She looked sad and understanding and something else Diana couldn't quite identify.

"Diana," Lavender said, and there was something in the way she spoke her name—not Chief Marten, not the title, but the person underneath it—that made Diana's chest tighten with panic and longing.

"I should go," Diana said, backing toward the door. "This was… I shouldn't have?—"

"You should have," Lavender said, not moving closer but not letting her escape either. "When's the last time someone saw you? Actually saw you, not the uniform or the badge or the competence, but you?"

Diana's hand found the door handle, solid and real and offering escape from a conversation that was dismantling everything she thought she knew about herself. But something in Lavender's voice, in the way she'd spoken her name, kept her from turning it.

"I don't know," Diana whispered, the admission roughening her voice. "I don't remember."

Lavender moved, crossing the space between them with careful steps, as if approaching something wild that might bolt at any sudden movement. When she reached Diana, she didn't touch her, but her presence was warm and solid and impossibly comforting.

"You don't have to carry it all alone," Lavender said. "The weight of everyone's safety, hope, and fear. It's too much for one person, even one as strong as you."

Diana's professional training screamed warnings about compromised judgment and blurred boundaries, but her body betrayed her by relaxing slightly under Lavender's gentle certainty.

For just a moment, she let herself imagine what it might feel like to share that weight, to trust someone else with the crushing responsibility of keeping people safe.

The moment stretched between them, candlelight and ocean sounds and the scent of herbs creating a bubble outside the everyday world where different rules might apply.

Diana felt herself balanced on the edge of something that terrified and attracted her in equal measure—the possibility of connection, of being known, of letting someone past the walls she'd built so carefully over the years.

But the radio on her belt crackled with routine dispatch traffic, and the sound shattered the spell. Diana straightened, muscle memory pulling her back into professional posture even as part of her reached toward what Lavender was offering.

"I really should go," Diana said, but her hand remained on the door handle, unmoving.

"I know," Lavender said, and the understanding in her voice was almost harder to bear than confrontation would have been. "But Diana? Tonight was a beginning. Not just for the investigation, but for you. Don't let fear make you waste it."

Diana nodded once, sharp and professional, then walked toward the door. But as she stood there, her hand stayed frozen on the door handle, her body caught between flight and something electric. Behind her, Lavender remained still, her presence like a gravity well Diana couldn't escape.

"This isn't how investigations work," Diana said, turning back into the café's main area where candles flickered across empty tables.

"How do they work?" Lavender followed with that fluid grace Diana found both compelling and infuriating.

"With boundaries and objectivity." Diana paced toward the windows. "With professional distance that keeps emotions from compromising judgment."

"And how's that working for you?"

The question hit like a slap. Diana spun around, finding Lavender watching her, arms crossed but expression open.

"It's worked for fifteen years of police work."

"Has it?" Lavender's voice carried that maddening gentleness. "Because fifteen years of professional distance has left you isolated and unable to access the very community intelligence you need."

Diana's hands clenched. "What you're offering isn't partnership. It's this touchy-feely emotional minefield where everyone shares feelings while three women are still missing."

"You think emotional support is useless?"

"I think you create this space where people feel safe sharing feelings, but feelings don't solve cases." Diana paced to the memorial corner. "They don't find missing women."

"And your walls do?"

Diana turned back, finding Lavender closer, candlelight catching the silver in her hair, intelligence in her eyes that seemed to see through every defense Diana had constructed.

"My walls keep me functional," Diana said sharply. "They keep me thinking clearly when other people are falling apart."

"They keep you alone," Lavender said quietly.

"They keep me effective."

"When's the last time someone knew you—really knew you? Not Chief Marten, but you.”

Diana felt professional certainty cracking like ice over deep water.

"You keep everyone at arm's length," Lavender continued, stepping closer. "How can you protect people you won't let yourself know?"

"I protect people by staying focused on the facts, not feelings."

"Or by staying so focused on the job that you forget about the person doing it."

The words made her pause, and Diana felt something snap inside her chest. Years of careful control was crumbling under one simple, devastating truth.

"Diana," Lavender said, and something in the way she spoke her name made Diana's chest tighten with panic and longing.

"Don't." Diana backed toward the counter. "Don't say my name like that. You don't know what it's like to carry the weight of everyone's safety."

But Lavender was moving closer again, her presence warm and compelling.

"You've convinced yourself that distance equals strength. But what if caring more deeply actually makes you better at protecting people?"

Diana's laugh held only exhaustion and fear. "And what if letting myself feel everything means I can't function when it matters most?"

"Then you learn to balance," Lavender said simply. "You learn that strength isn't the absence of feeling. It's feeling everything and still showing up anyway."

The words hung between them, loaded with possibility and challenge and something that felt dangerously like hope.

"I don't know how," Diana whispered.

Lavender smiled, small and understanding. "That's why we work together. That's why you don't have to carry it all alone."

Diana felt herself balanced on the edge of something that terrified and attracted her—the possibility of connection, of being known, of trusting someone else with the crushing responsibility she'd carried alone.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything Diana had just revealed.

She stood frozen near the counter, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, looking like she might bolt at any sudden movement.

But Lavender didn't move. She just watched her with those knowing eyes that seemed to see straight through every wall Diana had ever built.

"I can't—" Diana started, then stopped, her voice breaking on words she couldn't finish. The professional mask had cracked completely, leaving behind something raw and vulnerable that terrified her more than any crime scene ever had.

"Diana." Lavender's voice was soft, but it cut through Diana's panic like a lifeline. "Look at me."

Diana's eyes found hers, and she saw something there that made her breath catch—not pity or triumph, but understanding and recognition, as if Lavender could see all the pieces Diana kept hidden and wasn't afraid of any of them.

"Come here," Lavender said, taking a step toward the back room. Not commanding, just offering. "Away from the windows. Away from everything else."

Diana's feet moved before her mind could object, following Lavender through the doorway into the inner sanctum she'd been in that morning. But the space felt different now, more intimate.

Lavender turned to face her, and Diana felt the last of her control begin to slip. Three weeks of failure, fifteen years of isolation, a lifetime of carrying everyone else's burdens—all of it pressing against her ribs like a weight she couldn't bear alone anymore.

"I don't know how to do this," Diana whispered, the admission catching in her throat. "I don't know how to be anything other than what I am."

"What you are is enough." Lavender moved closer, close enough that Diana could see the silver threading through her hair and smell the herbal scent that clung to her skin. "What you are is remarkable."