Chapter 4 - St. Jude’s Haven
St. Jude’s Haven was a fog-shrouded, quiet fishing village nestled against rocky cliffs. The air smelled of salt, pine, and diesel fuel. Arthur rented a battered pickup truck at the regional airport, and we arrived in the harbor town just as dusk began to settle.
We started our search at the local marine supply store Glen had identified from Clara’s financial records. The shop was cluttered with ropes, lobster traps, and tarnished brass instruments. Behind the counter sat an elderly man with a weather-beaten face and silver hair, polishing a brass compass.
"Excuse me," Arthur said, leaning against the counter. "We’re looking for someone who might have settled here about six or seven years ago. An American. Goes by George, or maybe uses the initials G.M."
The old man looked up, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully behind thick spectacles. "Don't get many strangers settling down here permanent-like. Most folks who move here are running from something or looking to die in peace."
I pulled out my phone and displayed a photograph of my father from eight years ago—a tall man with warm blue eyes, a thick salt-and-pepper beard, and a slight scar across his left eyebrow. "Have you ever seen this man?"
The shopkeeper stared at the screen for a long moment. His posture shifted, growing noticeably guarded. "Why are you asking?"
"He's my father," I said, my voice cracking with emotion. "He went missing seven years ago. We thought he died at sea. But yesterday... we found a clue that leads us to believe he might be alive. Or that the woman who took his money knows where he is."
The shopkeeper took a deep breath, looking toward the shop's front window to ensure no one else was listening. "Name’s Cormac," he said quietly. "That man in the picture... he calls himself Thomas around here. Came to St. Jude’s seven years ago on a battered wooden skiff, half-starved and barely conscious. He had a deep wound on the back of his head."
I gasped, clutching Arthur’s arm. "He’s alive?!"
"He was alive when he washed ashore," Cormac corrected gently. "The local doctor patched him up. But Thomas—or George—had severe amnesia. He didn't remember his name, his past, or where he came from. All he had was a leather sketchpad tucked inside his waterproof coat."
"The sketchpad!" I cried out. "Did it have an anchor design in it?"
"It did," Cormac nodded. "He was obsessed with that drawing. Said it was the only piece of his soul he felt connected to. About six years ago, a wealthy woman started showing up in town. Said she was his benefactor, paying for his cottage, his medical care, his groceries. She told the town she was his devoted wife taking care of a tragic, invalid husband."
"Clara," Arthur growled, his fists clenching. "She found him!"
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"She didn't just find him," Cormac said bitterly. "She kept him isolated. She told him his family was dead—that his daughter died in a car crash years ago—so he would never try to leave or search for his past. She brought in private doctors to keep him sedated, claiming it was for his 'neurological recovery.'"
My blood ran cold. The sheer cruelty of it paralyzed me. She didn't just steal his money; she stole his life, his memory, and his love for me, replacing it with a cruel lie that I was dead.
