Page 3 of Taken from Her
A couple walked hand in hand, stopping to examine art displayed in a gallery window. A group of women sat at an outdoor table, laptops open but conversation clearly more important than work. An older woman tended to a community garden, her movements suggesting ownership born from care rather than property.
This was the world Tara, Isabel, and Joanna had chosen—not just as a place to live, but a community to belong to. Someone had violated that sense of safety, turning their sanctuary into a hunting ground.
Diana parked outside a building painted in soft purples and creams with flower boxes bright with herbs and blooms that seemed to welcome rather than merely decorate. Through the large windows, she saw cozy seating areas, local art on exposed brick walls, and people moving with the easy familiarity of regulars in their chosen space.
Lavender's Café.
Her uniform felt heavier than usual, her badge and radio marking her as an outsider. Diana checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, straightened her shoulders, and reached for the door handle.
The Victorian building housing Lavender's Café stood like a gentle rebellion against institutional conformity. The purple door showed the gentle wear of frequent use, its brass handle polished smooth by countless hands seeking entry to whatever lay beyond.
Diana hesitated on the sidewalk, suddenly aware of how her patrol car dominated the curb space where a vintage bicycle leaned casually against a lamppost, its basket overflowing with asters and dahlias.
The scent of fresh-baked pastries drifted through the open door, mixing with something herbal—lavender, perhaps, or sage.Voices carried in the air, not the clipped exchanges of business but the flowing rhythm of people who had nowhere urgent to be.
Diana adjusted her duty belt, catching fragments of conversation through the glass:
"—told her the city council meeting is Thursday, but you know Maria would want us to?—"
"—Joanna's classes this week, and I think the kids need?—"
Names that belonged to case files, spoken with the intimacy of loss and love.
Through the window, she spotted her first glimpse of Lavender Larwood: tall and graceful, moving between tables with the kind of natural authority that came from genuine care rather than official designation. Her silver hair caught the morning light as she leaned down to listen to an elderly woman's concerns, one hand resting gently on the woman's shoulder. Everything about her presence suggested someone who knew how to hold space for others' emotions without being overwhelmed by them.
Diana watched as Lavender straightened, scanning the café with evaluating eyes that seemed to catalog not just who was present but how they were feeling. When a younger woman at the counter looked uncertain about her order, Lavender moved closer, offering suggestions with the patience of someone who understood that small choices sometimes carried larger weight.
There was something compelling about the way Lavender commanded the space—not through volume or position but through presence itself. Customers gravitated toward her naturally, seeking not just coffee but connection and comfort, the kind of emotional sustenance Diana had never learned to receive.
A burst of laughter from inside the café made Diana realize she'd been standing motionless on the sidewalk, studying the scene like a surveillance operation.
She pushed through the purple door.
The transition from the street to inside the cafe happened immediately—scents of coffee and herbs enveloping her and conversations pausing as heads turned toward the uniformed figure who'd entered their space. It wasn’t hostile attention, just careful assessment, the way a community protects itself while remaining polite.
Diana's boots clicked against hardwood floors that had probably witnessed decades of conversations, arguments, celebrations, and grief. Local artwork covered exposed brick walls: paintings, photographs, and small sculptures that spoke to creativity fostered rather than merely displayed. Plants thrived in every corner, their leafy abundance suggesting someone who understood nurturing.
Lavender looked up from the espresso machine, making direct eye contact across the crowded space. For a moment, they simply studied each other—the police chief in her pressed uniform and the café owner in flowing fabrics that moved like water when she walked.
Diana felt oddly exposed under her gaze, as if Lavender could see past her professional armor to her core. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but definitely seen in a way that made her hyperaware of how she held herself and how her presence changed the room's energy.
Lavender approached the counter with easy confidence as she wiped her hands on a towel. "Chief Marten." Her voice carried warmth without false enthusiasm. "Coffee?"
The simple question felt loaded with possibility. Diana found herself nodding before consciously deciding, drawn by something in Lavender's manner that suggested coffee might be the least important thing being offered.
"Black," Diana said, then caught herself. Julia's words echoed:They respond to authenticity, not authority.She tried again. "Please."
Lavender's smile was brief but genuine, hands already reaching for a mug that looked handmade, glazed in deep blues and greens that reminded Diana of the ocean. Not the institutional white cups Diana was accustomed to, but something chosen for beauty as well as function.
"We have several blends," Lavender said, pouring with practiced grace. "Some days call for strong and simple; others need something more complex. What kind of morning are you having?"
The question caught Diana off guard. In her world, mornings were efficient or inefficient. But Lavender seemed genuinely interested in the answer, as if her coffee selection mattered beyond its caffeine delivery.
"Complex," Diana admitted, surprised by her own honesty.
Lavender paused, eyes meeting Diana's with understanding that felt both professional and personal. Here was someone accustomed to reading between lines and interpreting the stories people told through what they didn't say.
Around them, the café's energy had shifted subtly. Conversations continued, but Diana sensed the attention directed their way—protective, curious, evaluating. This was Lavender's territory, these were her people, and Diana was being measured against standards she didn't understand.
