Page 11 of Taken from Her
The door closed behind Diana with quiet finality, leaving Lavender alone with security monitors and the lingering sense that something significant had just begun.
Outside, conversations resumed in the café, but the energy had shifted. Tonight's meeting would either establish the partnership they desperately needed or reveal just how deep the divide between official and community protection really ran.
Either way, Lavender suspected Diana Marten was about to discover parts of herself she'd kept carefully locked away.
3
The 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 thatyielded 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 thanweeks 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?"
