Page 12 of Taken from Her
"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?"
Diana's training kicked in automatically. "We're following all available leads. I can't discuss specific details of an ongoing investigation, but I want you to know?—"
"Following leads hasn't brought our girls home." Mrs. Holstead's voice carried authority. "What we want to know is when you're going to find them."
The question hung in the air like incense, heavy with expectation Diana couldn't meet. Around the circle, faces waited for reassurance she couldn't provide, for certainty that didn't exist, for the kind of emotional comfort that had never been part of her job description.
Diana felt her professional mask slipping under the weight of their collective need. These weren't witnesses or suspects or case files; they were people whose lives had been shattered by something she couldn't stop or solve or even understand.
"I know you're scared," she began, then stopped. The words sounded hollow even to her, the police training inadequate for the raw grief and terror facing her.
