Chapter 5 - The Hidden Cottage
Cormac gave us directions to a secluded cottage perched on a high bluff two miles north of the village, surrounded by dense pine trees and facing the turbulent Atlantic Ocean.
"Be careful," Cormac warned us as we prepared to leave. "She keeps a security guard posted there under the guise of an 'at-home nurse.' The man’s an ex-mercenary named Vance. Nobody from the village goes near that house."
Arthur drove the rental truck through the narrow, dirt forest road in total darkness, keeping the headlights dim. My mind was racing. Clara had kept my father prisoner in plain sight, using his official declared death to collect millions in life insurance and inheritance, while keeping him alive in a subdued state to satisfy whatever sick, twisted sense of control or obsession she possessed.
And the tattoo? Why did she have it?
Suddenly, it clicked. "Arthur," I whispered as we parked the truck behind a thick cluster of spruce trees. "The tattoo on Clara. She didn't get it at a parlor."
"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, adjusting his flashlights.
"It wasn't a real tattoo," I realized, the horror dawning on me. "It was a fresh, temporary medical transfer or a forced marking! Or maybe... maybe she tried to force him to tattoo her to prove he belonged to her now, but it got infected or smeared. That’s why the skin looked raised and inflamed!"
We crept through the woods toward the dark silhouette of the cottage. A single light burned on the ground floor. Through the living room window, I saw an older man sitting in a high-backed armchair near a fireplace. His hair was completely white now, his shoulders slumped, staring blankly into the flames.
It was my father.
Tears blinded my eyes, but I forced myself to stay silent. Standing near the doorway was a heavily built man in tactical pants—Vance, the guard Cormac had warned us about. He was on the phone, looking agitated.
"We need to get inside without setting off an alarm," Arthur whispered.
Before we could plan our move, the glare of headlights swept through the trees behind us. A sleek black SUV pulled up to the cottage driveway. The driver’s door opened, and Clara stepped out, wearing a dark coat and carrying a leather duffel bag. She looked frantic, her composure completely shattered.
"Vance!" she yelled as she barged through the front door. "We have to move him tonight! Sarah knows something. She saw the ink!"
We crept closer to the side window, listening intently to the heated argument inside.
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"I told you getting that tribute mark done by that back-alley artist was a mistake," Vance growled, his voice thick and rough. "You got careless, Clara. Now the police will be crawling all over this place if her family tracks your movements."
"They won't find anything if we move him to the island house in Belize!" Clara shrieked. "Get him packed. The boat is waiting at the private dock!"
