Page 6 of Taken from Her
"Any word?" Corinne asked before Lavender could speak.
"Nothing yet. How are you holding up?"
"Like shit." A pause filled with the sound of coffee brewing, another morning ritual grasping for normalcy. "The police called yesterday and wanted to interview me again. Same questions, same non-answers."
Lavender settled into the cushioned nook where she took difficult calls, watching the harbor lights reflect off water that moved like liquid mercury. "They're trying. Sometimes the system just moves differently than we do."
"Your cop friend—Chief Marten. She’s coming by the café today?"
The question carried weight Lavender wasn't ready to unpack. Diana Marten, all pressed uniform and careful control, studying the community like a puzzle she needed to solve. Professional competence wrapped around something that might be vulnerability, if you knew how to look.
"Probably. She seems…thorough."
Corinne's laugh held no humor. "Thorough doesn't bring Joanna home."
"No," Lavender agreed. "But giving up doesn't either."
They talked for another few minutes—practical things like grocery runs and who was covering Joanna's swim classes—before Corinne’s exhaustion pulled the conversation to a close. Lavender made two more calls, checking on Isabel's housemate and Tara's sister, each conversation a thread connecting worried hearts across the city.
By the time she'd dressed and gathered supplies for the café, dawn had already tinted the sky. Saffron and Basil supervised from their perch on the galley counter, their green eyes tracking her movements with intensity.
"I know," she told them, scratching behind their ears, and they purred despite the weight in the air. "I'll be careful."
The promise felt hollow even as she spoke it. Careful hadn't protected three women who'd been living their lives with reasonable caution. Careful might not be enough for any of them anymore.
But community care wasn't about being careful. It was about showing up anyway, creating space for healing even when your own heart was breaking, and holding others steady while the ground shifted beneath everyone's feet.
Lavender gathered her keys and the canvas bag that held everything she'd need to transform the café space. The harbor mist was beginning to lift, revealing a city that looked normal from the outside—the same Victorian houses dotting the hillsides, the same fishing boats heading out for morning runs, and the same promise of coffee and conversation that drew people together.
But underneath the familiar surface, fear moved like an undertow, and it would take everything she had to keep her community from drowning in it.
The café waited for her, chairs stacked on tables like sleeping birds as morning light was beginning to filter through windows that faced the harbor. Lavender turned the key in the purple door, stepping into the space that had become more than just a business. It was a refuge, community center, and the beating heart of Phoenix Ridge's lesbian community.
She moved through the familiar routine without conscious thought. Coffee beans tumbled into the grinder, their rich scent cutting through the lingering lavender oil she'd burned the night before. The espresso machine warmed with gentle hissing sounds, steam wands testing their pressure. Pastries from the local bakery were arranged in the display case, their sweet aromas already calling to early risers who would need comfort along with caffeine.
White roses went into the vase on the community board, their pale petals catching light like hope itself. Around them, Lavender arranged the photos: Tara laughing at some school fundraiser, Isabel presenting at a tech meetup, and Joanna with her arms around a group of kids at the pool. Not memorial photos, not yet. These were reminders that they were still fighting, still believing in their return.
The espresso machine chimed its readiness, and Lavender prepared each woman’s preferred drink with care. She placed the drinks on the memorial corner, three full cups that would cool untouched, offerings to absence that felt too vast to fill.
Her phone buzzed. Dr. Samira Hassan, texting from the hospital where she'd been pulling extra shifts since the disappearances started.
Community mental health check-in today? Café at 3?
Lavender typed back quickly.Yes. Thank you.
The medical community was stepping up, offering resources for trauma and fear that formal systems couldn't always address. Another thread in the web of care they were weaving around each other, informal networks catching people when official channels failed.
Sunlight moved across the hardwood floors as Lavender adjusted the lighting, checked the sound system, and arranged seating areas to encourage both intimate conversation and larger gatherings. Everything had to feel normal while acknowledging that normal had been shattered three weeks ago.
The plants responded to the morning light, their leaves turning toward windows that overlooked the street where women were already walking in pairs instead of alone and where conversations happened with constant awareness of surroundings. The jasmine vine that wound around the front window had been a gift from Tara's environmental science class,their way of thanking Lavender for hosting their Earth Day planning meetings.
The purple door would open in fifteen minutes. Coffee cups would fill hands that needed something to hold. Conversations would rise and fall like harbor tides, carrying fear and hope in equal measure. And somehow, Lavender would need to be the steady center of it all, the calm eye of a storm that threatened to scatter everything they'd built.
She lit one more candle, this one for herself to help scrape together any strength she could gather.
The first knock came five minutes before the doors officially opened. Mrs. Georgia Darricott, community elder and retired librarian, stood at the door with her silver hair perfectly arranged and worry etched in the lines around her eyes.
"Early today, aren't we?" Georgia said as Lavender unlocked the door.
