Chapter 2 - The Anchor Tattoo
What Ariel was pointing at wasn't a baby bump or a silly hallucination; it was a distinctive, highly specific mark pressed against the wet fabric of Clara’s designer swimsuit. On the lower right side of Clara’s abdomen, freshly inked and showing clearly through the clinging light blue material, was a tattoo: a vintage navy anchor entwined with a compass rose, featuring the precise initials G.M. etched into the anchor's fluke.
My breath hitched in my throat. That wasn't just any design. It was the exact custom tattoo my biological father, George Miller—who had tragically disappeared at sea during a deep-sea fishing expedition seven years ago and was declared legally dead—had drawn himself. Before he went missing, my dad showed me that sketch, telling me he intended to get it inked during his next trip abroad. But he vanished before he ever got the chance. Or so I believed. Glen rushed over, his brow furrowed, while Clara scrambled up from the lounger, her hands instantly slapping over her midsection in visible panic.
"What is going on, Sarah?" Glen asked, looking between my pale face and Clara’s desperate posture. "What did Ariel see?"
"That tattoo," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mixture of grief, confusion, and sudden, icy fury. "Clara, where did you get that? That was my father’s signature design. He never got that tattoo before his boat vanished!"
Clara’s eyes darted around the poolside. Guests had stopped chatting; the cheerful reggae music playing from the outdoor speakers suddenly felt grotesquely out of place. "It's nothing, Sarah! Don't be dramatic. It’s just a generic anchor design I picked off a flash sheet at a local parlor last week. I got it to honor George's memory!"
"Liar!" I stepped forward, my hands shaking. "Dad designed those exact stylized initials—G.M.—with a hidden geometric flare inside the compass rose. He drew it in my childhood sketchpad. Ariel recognized it because I have that exact drawing framed in my home office right next to a picture of him! She calls that framed drawing 'Daddy' because my dad looks so much like Glen in those old photos!"
Glen stepped between us, inspecting the silhouette through Clara’s damp suit. His expression hardened. "Clara, Sarah’s right. That’s not a generic flash tattoo. And more importantly... that ink looks barely healed. The skin is raised."
"I told you, I got it recently!" Clara snapped, pulling a beach towel tightly around her torso. "You’re making a scene at your own daughter’s party, Sarah. You’re insane."
She turned to flee toward the guest house, but my uncle Arthur—my dad's younger brother—stepped into her path, his face stern. "Hold on, Clara. George disappeared seven years ago on your private yacht off the coast of Maine. The authorities never found a body, just a wrecked hull. If that design was private... how did you get it inked onto your body recently?"
May you like
The tension in the backyard was palpable. Ariel whimpered, hiding her face in my shoulder. I held her tight, staring down the woman who had inherited my father's entire estate, his life insurance payout, and our family home, leaving me with almost nothing due to a hastily updated will signed just months before George vanished.
"I don't have to stay here and be interrogated," Clara spat, her defensive mask cracking to reveal pure panic. She shoved past Arthur and bolted toward the driveway.
