Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Past
The party ended in uncomfortable silence as guests offered awkward condolences and quickly departed. Glen helped clear the tables while my uncle Arthur sat with me at the kitchen island, nursing a mug of black coffee. Ariel was upstairs, fast asleep after the overwhelming afternoon.
"Sarah," Arthur began, his voice low and heavy. "You know I never trusted Clara after your father disappeared. The timeline of his death was always too clean. The police ruled it an accidental drowning after a sudden squall, but George was a veteran captain. He knew those waters better than anyone."
"If she has his custom tattoo, it means one of two things," I said, rubbing my temples as tears finally spilled over. "Either she found his private journals where he kept the original drawing—journals that were supposed to be lost at sea with him—or..."
"Or George was alive long enough after the disappearance to get that tattoo inked himself, or show it to someone," Glen finished, walking into the kitchen and setting his phone on the counter. "I just called a friend of mine who works in digital forensics. He pulled up Clara’s social media and public records over the last few years. She’s been making regular, unannounced trips to a small coastal town in Nova Scotia, Canada, three times a year."
I looked up, stunned. "Nova Scotia? She told everyone she was going to health spas in Arizona!"
"Her credit card statements—or at least the public filings from her estate management firm—show transactions at a marine supply store in a village called St. Jude’s Haven," Glen explained. "Sarah, your dad always talked about wanting to retire to the Canadian Maritimes."
My heart hammered against my ribs. Was my father alive? Or had Clara done something horrific to him and kept a morbid souvenir? The thought of my dad being held somewhere, or worse, abandoning me voluntarily, tore through my chest.
"We need to go to St. Jude’s Haven," Arthur said, standing up. "I’m coming with you. We can’t go to the police yet—we have no hard evidence of a crime, just a tattoo spotted through a wet swimsuit. They'll call us grieving relatives chasing ghosts."
"Glen, can you stay with Ariel and my mother-in-law?" I asked, looking at my husband.
Glen took my hand, squeezing it firmly. "I’ll protect Ariel with my life. You go find out the truth about your father. But promise me you’ll be careful. If Clara is hiding something this huge, she’s dangerous."
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Early the next morning, Arthur and I packed a single suitcase each and boarded a flight north. As the plane soared above the clouds, I stared out the window, remembering the day seven years ago when the Coast Guard delivered the tragic news. My father’s boat, The Wanderer, had been found capsized off the craggy coast, empty. Clara had wept copiously at the memorial service, claiming her heart was shattered. Yet, within six months, she had sold off his business assets and moved into a gated luxury estate.
The pieces were beginning to clash, creating a terrifying picture. I opened my phone and looked at the photo of my father's original drawing—the anchor, the compass, and the initials G.M. I swore right then that no matter what sinister truth lay at the end of this trail, I would uncover it.
