Page 14 of Taken from Her
Lavender looked up from wiping the counter. "Do what?"
"Make them feel heard when I can't give them what they need." Diana's hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. "I stood up there tonight and watched you navigate their emotions like…like you had some kind of map I can't read."
"You give them dedication," Lavender said, continuing her cleaning with steady hands. "Sometimes that matters more than answers."
"Does it?" Diana turned toward the memorial corner, staring at the untouched drinks. "Three women are still missing. Corinne goes home every night to Joanna's empty side of the bed, and all I can offer is 'the investigation continues.'"
She felt Lavender move closer and sensed her presence before seeing her in her peripheral vision. "And you haven't given up. That counts for something."
Diana's laugh was flat. "Mrs. Holstead doesn't think so. None of them do. Three weeks, and I'm no closer to finding them than I was the first day."
"You're here," Lavender said simply. "In a room full of emotions you clearly hate dealing with, asking questions you've never had to ask before. That's not the same person who handled this case three weeks ago."
The observation cut deeper than Diana expected. She turned to face Lavender fully, noting how the candlelight softened her features but couldn't hide the intelligence in her eyes, the way she seemed to see straight through Diana’s professional walls.
"I don't know if different is better," Diana said. "I don't know if any of this community outreach actually helps find missing women or just makes everyone feel better about being helpless."
Lavender set down her cleaning cloth with deliberate care. "You think what I do is just making people feel better?"
"I think—" Diana stopped, recognizing dangerous territory but unable to step back from it. "I think you create this sanctuary where people feel safe sharing feelings, but feelings don't find missing women. Facts do. Evidence does. Police work does."
"And your walls don't either." Lavender's voice remained steady, but something shifted in her posture, in the way she held herself. "When's the last time you actually connected with another human being without your badge as an intermediary?"
The question hit like a physical blow. Diana felt her professional mask cracking, years of careful control struggling against something that wanted to break free.
"I protect people by being objective," she said, the words coming out sharper than intended. "By not letting emotions cloud my judgment."
"Or by not letting yourself care enough to be hurt if you fail."
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."
