Page 60 of Taken from Her
She folded the dish towel with precise movements, then immediately unfolded it to start over. Her hands needed tasks while her mind processed the strange energy that had been building all evening. Not the familiar anxiety about Diana's safety, but something more immediate, like pressure before a storm.
The cats' behavior was wrong. Saffron never paced unless something had disrupted his routine, and Basil's alert posture suggested he was monitoring threats rather than settling in for the night. Animals sensed things humans missed: changes in air pressure, sounds beyond normal hearing range, and the approach of danger that hadn't yet announced itself.
Lavender moved to the main seating area, straightening cushions that didn't need straightening. Through the windows, the harbor stretched in familiar patterns: other houseboats bobbing gently at their moorings, the marina's security lights creating pools of yellow on dark water, and fishing boats preparing for early morning runs. Nothing looked unusual, but something felt wrong.
Her phone sat on the small table. No messages, no missed calls. Diana would be in briefings now, surrounded by her team and federal agents, focused entirely on the complex operation that would neutralize the people who'd threatened their community. The same people who'd sent that message warning Lavender to close the café, who'd made it clear they understood exactly how to hurt Diana by targeting the woman she loved.
The thought made Lavender's chest tighten. She'd insisted on staying at the houseboat despite Diana's suggestion that she spend the night at the café with reinforced security protocols. The familiar space felt safer than anywhere else, surrounded byfifteen years of carefully chosen possessions and the cats who'd shared every major transition in her life. But now, with Diana gone and darkness settling over the harbor, familiarity felt more like isolation.
Lavender lit candles with steady hands. The ritual usually grounded her, but tonight the flickering flames seemed insufficient against shadows that pressed closer than normal. She'd maintained this practice through every crisis, but tonight felt different.
A sound from the dock made both cats freeze. Not the usual creak of lines adjusting to tide changes or the distant voices of marina residents, but something purposeful. Footsteps on wooden planks, moving with deliberate quiet rather than the casual gait of someone heading home.
Lavender moved to the window, peering through glass that reflected her own face back at her. The dock stretched in both directions, empty as far as she could see, but the sound had been real. Saffron's ears remained flattened, and Basil had abandoned his chair to press against her ankles with protective urgency.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Georgia Darricott: Everything is quiet at the café, and the community's following safety protocols. Hope Diana's operation goes smoothly.
Lavender typed back quickly: All good here. Will update tomorrow.
The response felt like a lie even as she sent it. Saying everything was all good suggested normal, peaceful evening routines, the comfortable solitude she usually treasured. But her skin prickled with awareness that had nothing to do with the cool harbor air drifting through the porthole.
Another sound—definitely footsteps, closer now. Someone moving along the dock with careful placement, avoiding the boards that creaked loudest. Lavender's community leadership experience had taught her to distinguish between routinemarina activity and behavior that suggested a threat. This fell clearly into the second category.
She reached for the panic button Diana had insisted she keep within reach, a small device connected directly to police dispatch. Her finger hovered over the activation switch while she weighed the consequences of a false alarm against the growing certainty that something was approaching through the darkness.
The footsteps stopped. Lavender counted heartbeats in the sudden silence, every instinct screaming that whatever had been moving toward her was now positioned and waiting. The harbor's usual sounds continued—water against hulls, distant music from shoreline restaurants, the low hum of generators—but underneath them lay a quality of attention that made her skin crawl.
Basil hissed softly, his gray fur standing on end as he stared toward the main door. Saffron had vanished entirely, probably seeking the hiding spot under the bed that he used during thunderstorms. Animals knew when to hide.
Lavender's hand closed around the panic button, but something made her hesitate. Diana's operation was beginning now, requiring every available resource and complete focus from everyone involved. A false alarm would pull units away from the complex coordination that could finally end the threats against their community. But if this wasn't false—if someone had chosen this moment precisely because they knew Diana would be occupied—then hesitation could cost everything.
The decision was made for her by a soft knock on the houseboat's main door.
Three careful raps, followed by silence. Not the firm knock of marina security or the casual greeting of a neighbor, but something that felt like a test. Someone checking whether she was awake, alert, and prepared for whatever came next.
Lavender's thumb found the panic button's activation switch, but she didn't press it yet. Instead, she moved carefully toward the door, avoiding the floorboards that announced movement. Through the small porthole window, she caught a glimpse of a figure on the dock: tall, wearing dark clothing, and positioned to avoid the marina's security lighting.
Her breath caught as training Diana had insisted on kicked in. Document everything, trust your instincts, and prioritize survival over politeness. The figure wasn't someone lost or looking for help. This was someone who'd approached with intention and preparation, someone who knew exactly where to find her when she'd be most vulnerable.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Three raps followed by a pause, then three more. A pattern that suggested communication rather than random contact.
Lavender's heart hammered against her ribs as she realized the truth: while Diana prepared to neutralize distant threats, the immediate danger had come to her home.
Lavender's thumb still hovered over the panic button as the knocking stopped. Through the porthole, she watched the figure step back, becoming a shadow among shadows on the dock. Not retreating—repositioning. Professional movement that suggested tactical awareness rather than a casual approach.
Her phone sat on the small table, Diana's conversation still open from their earlier goodnight text. But calling now would pull Diana away from an operation that had taken weeks to coordinate, resources that might save three missing women’s lives and prevent future attacks. The weight of that responsibility pressed against her ribs like a physical constraint.
The figure moved again, this time toward the stern where the houseboat's electrical connections ran to the shore’s power. Lavender's chest tightened as she realized the implications. Someone familiar enough with marina layouts would know howto disable communications and lighting, leaving her completely in the darkness.
She pressed the panic button.
Nothing happened. No confirmation beep, no indicator light, no sense that the signal had transmitted successfully. Her fingers found the device's edges, checking connections that had worked perfectly during Diana's testing sessions. Dead. Either from a malfunction or deliberate interference.
The harbor lights flickered once, then died. Not just her houseboat, but the entire dock section, plunging the water into darkness broken only by moonlight filtering through coastal fog. Emergency lighting should have been activated automatically, but even those systems remained offline. Someone had disabled the marina's electrical grid with expert precision.
Lavender moved toward the galley where her phone charged beside the coffee maker. The screen remained lit and signal bars strong, but when she tried to dial Diana's number, nothing happened. The call wouldn't connect. Radio silence created by jamming equipment or system disruption, leaving her completely cut off from help.
Basil pressed against her ankles, his purr the only sound she could hear clearly. Even the harbor's usual ambience seemed muffled, as if the approaching threat had created a pocket of silence around her home. Saffron remained hidden, instincts telling him to wait until danger passed.
