Chapter 3
Chapter 3 - Safe HavenThe bus dropped her off in Portland, but Clara knew a city that size was still too small. Julian had corporate clients in Portland. Instead, she took a local coastal shuttle further north, watching the rugged cliffs and dense pine forests of Maine swallow the highway. She finally pulled the cord to stop at Oakhaven, a sleepy fishing village tucked into a jagged cove where the Atlantic met the rocky wilderness.Oakhaven smelled of salt, pine resin, and woodsmoke. It was a place where tourists came in July but abandoned by October. Now, in the late autumn, the town belonged only to the locals.
Using her cash, Clara rented a small, weathered cottage on the edge of the cliffs from an elderly woman named Martha, who asked no questions beyond a week's deposit in advance. The cottage was sparse—a creaking iron bed, a wood stove, and a small kitchen with mismatched plates—but to Clara, it was a fortress. She introduced herself as Maya Collins, a freelance illustrator looking for quiet inspiration.
On her third morning, the burner phone buzzed. It was a Google alert she had set up for her own name.
“Prominent Boston Attorney Appeals for Safe Return of Missing Wife.”
The article featured a picture of her from a gala three months ago. She looked radiant, expensive, and utterly miserable. Julian was quoted as saying he feared she had suffered a mental breakdown due to overwork and begged anyone with information to come forward. He was setting the narrative, painting himself as the grieving, worried husband while preparing the public to view her as unstable if she ever dared speak out.
Clara shut the phone down, her hands shaking. She needed to anchor herself. She left the cottage and walked down to the harbor, the cold wind biting her nose.
Near the docks, a massive wooden structure caught her eye—a boatyard where vintage wooden schooners were being restored. The sound of rhythmic hammering and the scent of fresh sawdust drew her inside.
"Can I help you?" a deep, gravelly voice asked from the shadows of a half-built hull.
Clara jumped, her defensive instincts flaring. A man stepped out, wiping grease from his hands onto a flannel shirt. He was tall, with broad shoulders shaped by hard labor, dark hair touched with silver at the temples, and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He didn't look threatening; he looked tired, carrying an unspoken weight that Clara recognized instantly.
"I... I was just looking," Clara stammered, taking a step back. "I’m sorry to intrude."
"No intrusion," the man said, his demeanor calm, grounded. "I’m Liam. I own the yard. You must be Martha’s new tenant. Word travels fast in Oakhaven."
"Maya," she said, the lie tasting like ash on her tongue. "I’m an artist."
May you like
Liam looked at her hands, noting the way she kept them tucked deep into her pockets, the wary posture of someone who expected the sky to fall. He nodded slowly. "Good place for an artist. The light off the water changes every hour. If you ever need a place to sketch without the wind blowing your paper away, you’re welcome here."
"Thank you, Liam," she said softly. For the first time in days, the knot in her stomach loosened just a fraction.
