Page 1 of Taken from Her
1
The alarm never surprised Diana Marten.
She woke three minutes before it sounded every morning, her internal clock calibrated by years of discipline and the weight of command. Her apartment existed in shades of gray and white with its clean lines, minimal furniture, and everything in its designated place.
No chaos. No variables. No room for the kind of mistakes that cost lives.
It was the same ritual every day at 6 a.m.: shower with water hot enough to steam the mirror, uniform pressed the night before, and coffee programmed to brew while she moved through the predictable motions that had become her armor against uncertainty.
The percolator hissed to life as she fastened her badge, the only sound breaking the silence thick enough to feel oppressive.
Diana stood at her kitchen island, case files spread across the granite that reflected morning light filtering through blinds set at precise angles. No casual breakfast, no lingering over news or weather. Just black coffee and the faces of three women who'd become her responsibility the moment they disappeared.
Tara Brymer, thirty-four, environmental science teacher at Phoenix Ridge High. The photo showed her laughing at some school event, dark hair caught by the wind, eyes bright with the kind of passion Diana recognized but had never felt for anything beyond duty. Tara's hiking boots were found on the coastal trail where she walked her rescue dog every evening after classes. The dog came home alone.
Isabel Navarro, forty-one, tech startup founder who'd moved to Phoenix Ridge two years ago seeking community after burning out in Silicon Valley. Isabel's apartment was pristine with coffee still warm in the mug on her desk and her laptop open to emails she'd never finished sending. Her car sat in the driveway, and her keys hung on their designated hook. Everything normal except Isabel herself, who vanished between Thursday evening and Friday morning without a trace.
Joanna Rensworth, thirty-eight, retired Olympic swimmer turned community swimming instructor. Joanna's housemate found her bed unslept in, workout gear still damp from the evening swim she never missed. Her car was in the municipal pool parking lot—driver's door unlocked, gym bag on the passenger seat—containing everything except the woman who'd placed it there.
Diana's jaw tightened as she studied the photos again, looking for something she'd missed in three weeks of investigation. Three women. Three different lives, backgrounds, and daily routines.
But there was one connection that made her stomach clench: all three were prominent in Phoenix Ridge's lesbian community. All three were leaders, women whose absence created ripples of fear that Diana felt in every community interaction her officers reported. This wasn't random. Someone was hunting them.
The FBI training session came back to her: a sterile conference room in Quantico, her instructor's voice explaininghow hate crime perpetrators selected victims who represented what they opposed. They didn't strike randomly. They chose symbols, leaders, and women whose disappearances would terrorize an entire community. The methodical nature of their planning made them dangerous, but it also made them predictable if you understood their psychology. They studied their prey, learned their patterns, and struck when detection was least likely. Three successful abductions without witnesses, evidence, or mistakes suggested someone with skill and planning.
She lifted her coffee mug, aware of how her hand remained steady despite the cold settling in her chest. Diana had built her career on facts, evidence, and procedure. Interview the witnesses, collect physical evidence, analyze the data, and follow the leads to their logical conclusions. The method worked. It solved cases and earned respect from colleagues and trust from the community she served.
But staring at these three faces, Diana felt something pressing against her ribs like a constraint she'd never noticed. Her officers had interviewed their friends, family, and coworkers. They'd processed the crime scenes, analyzed their digital footprints, and canvassed their neighborhoods. They’d do everything by the book, everything professional.
Everything inadequate.
The three women were still missing. The community was terrified, and Diana was beginning to suspect that solving this case would require something different from her. She would need to understand these women not as victims or case files, but as human beings whose lives intersected in ways her usual methodical approach couldn't map.
She checked her watch: 7:15 a.m. It was time to brief her team and acknowledge that she would need to enter the heart ofthe community she protected by going to a place where feelings mattered more than facts.
She'd need to visit Lavender's Cafe.
Diana gathered the files, straightened her uniform, and checked her reflection in the hallway mirror. Chief Diana Marten looked back—composed, competent, in control. That was the woman who solved cases and commanded respect.
She nodded at her reflection once before stepping away.
The door closed behind her with a soft click, locking away another morning of solitude as Diana stepped into the Phoenix Ridge sunshine, carrying the mental image of those three faces and the growing certainty that everything was about to change.
The Phoenix Ridge Police Department hummed with its usual morning energy: the aroma of bitter coffee wafting from the break room, the rhythmic clicking of official reports being typed, and the muffled sound of radio chatter weaving through conversations as officers coordinated patrol routes and case updates. Diana moved through the familiar symphony with purposeful strides, her presence acknowledged by nods and straightened postures that pointed to years of earned respect.
The conference room carried the scent of dry-erase markers and yesterday's coffee, fluorescent lights reflecting off the whiteboard where she'd arranged the investigation's visual map. Three photos stared back at her—Tara, Isabel, Joanna—their faces surrounded by a grid of Phoenix Ridge marked with red pins showing last known locations and the expanding radius of search areas.
Diana positioned herself at the head of the rectangular table as her team assembled. Detective Julia Scott entered first, dark hair pulled back in a practical undercut, amber-flecked eyes already focused on the case materials. Captain Michelle Reyes followed, her compact frame carrying the authority of someone who'd made captain before thirty-five through competence anddetermination. Detective Morgan Rivers brought up the rear, laptop bag slung over her shoulder, coppery highlights catching the harsh lighting as she settled into her favored seat.
"Three weeks," Diana began without preamble, her voice carrying the weight of command and frustration. "Three women, three different MOs, zero witnesses, and a community that's asking questions we can't answer."
Julia leaned forward, studying the timeline Diana had constructed on the whiteboard. "Chief, the families are asking why we haven't made progress. These women didn't just vanish. Someone planned this." Her voice carried the frustration Diana felt but couldn't express. "We're missing something fundamental."
Diana's fingers drummed once against the table, a rare display of tension. "Which is exactly why we need to understand the community dynamics better. Someone targetedthesespecific women for a reason."
Morgan opened her laptop, her technical analysis ready as always. "I've run every digital trace possible. There’s been no unusual social media activity, no suspicious financial transactions, and no dating app interactions that raise flags. Their phones went dark at different times and locations, but all showed the same pattern: normal usage until complete blackout." She paused, looking up from her screen. "Whoever's doing this knows how to avoid leaving digital footprints."
"That suggests sophistication," Michelle added, consulting her notes. "The community's requesting increased patrols, especially around the lesbian-owned businesses. Some are talking about leaving Phoenix Ridge altogether."
