Chapter 2: Beneath the Surface

Welcome back.

Last chapter, a Hydro worker uncovered more than a frozen meter—he uncovered a frozen body. Ian McLeod is dead, and two of his sons are under arrest. But is this a case of patricide… or something far more complicated? As family tensions erupt and secrets stir beneath the snow, questions pile up faster than the storm drifts.

Already hooked? Dive in—and don’t forget to leave your theories in the comments below.

Chapter 2

 

Disappearance

 

Three Weeks Earlier:

 

George McLeod lived on the edge of Blackstone Isle, near the 200-acre farm his brother Ian called home. While Ian’s life was tethered to the rhythms of the land, George’s revolved around the island’s small Catholic primary school, where he taught grades 5 and 6. Blackstone Isle, once vibrant with the chatter of farming families, had grown quieter over the years. The red-covered Blackstone Bridge, connecting the island to the mainland, loomed like a relic of a more prosperous time.

 

It was February 11, 1988. George gripped the wheel of his blue 1985 Taurus, his breath clouding the chilly air inside the car. He was heading to the Sûreté Detachment in Harris Bay, and unease gnawed at him with each mile of the icy road. His brother Ian had been missing for a week.

 

Ian had always been the constant in George’s life—a towering, if deeply flawed, presence. As the frozen landscape whipped past the car windows, George’s mind returned to their last conversation.

 

“Ian, you don’t have to do this alone,” George had said, his tone gruff but edged with vulnerability. “You’ve been carrying this farm like a punishment. Let me help more before you drive yourself—and everyone else—into the ground.”

 

George could still hear the sharpness in Ian’s reply. “This is my land, George. Mine. You don’t get to tell me how to run it.”

 

The memory clung to him, heavy and unresolved.

 

As George pulled into the parking lot of the detachment, the engine hummed quietly for a moment before he cut it off. He sat motionless, gripping the steering wheel, staring at the stone facade of the building as if it could provide the answers he desperately needed.

 

The knot in his stomach tightened. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he pushed the door open. His boots heavy against the salt-streaked pavement as he stepped out, the freezing air biting his face. It was time he reported Ian missing.

 

Inside the Detachment:

 

The warmth inside was stifling after the chill outside. A young constable directed George to Sergeant Gilbert’s office, where the man himself greeted George with a nod and a handshake.

 

“George,” Gilbert said, his tone friendly but firm. “What brings you in today?”

 

George fidgeted with the edge of his coat, his face tight. “It’s Ian. He’s been gone for a week.” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “We meet every night for a drink at the Big Fish. Every night. But he hasn’t shown up.”

 

Gilbert’s brows knit together as he leaned back, taking in George’s nervous energy. “What do the boys say?”

 

George exhaled sharply, his breath a scoff. “They say he’s on vacation.” His eyes flicked to the floor, then back to Gilbert. “But Ian doesn’t take vacations. Not without asking me to check on the farm. He doesn’t trust Gerald or Jerome to manage it. And honestly, neither do I. They’re useless. Lazy. Always have been. But this …” He shook his head, his voice dropping. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

 

Gilbert studied George for a moment, noting the subtle tremor in his hands and the tension coiled in his jaw. “All right,” he said. “I’ll drive out to the farm in the next day or two, see if anything seems off. You are holding up, okay?”

 

George forced a weak smile, but it faded almost immediately. “Not really. I’m … alone most of the time, you know? I thought I’d have a family by now, but it didn’t happen. Ian’s family has always been my closest thing to one.” His voice grew quieter. “But they’ve changed. Gerald and Jerome—they’re not the boys I remember. Peter’s the only one who has a good head on his shoulders. And Ian …” He trailed off, his throat tight. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to him.”

 

Gilbert reached out, placing a steady hand on George’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll investigate it.”

 

On the Drive Home:

 

On the drive home, George’s mind swirled with memories. Though Ian had always been headstrong—prideful, even—he was the anchor of the McLeod family. Growing up, their roleshad been complicated, George loved the farm, Ian dreamt of another life away from farming. However, Ian was the oldest and expected to become the farmer. George had to pursue an education to earn a living as a teacher.

 

But farming made Ian’s life difficult. His marriage to Doris Sloan had started with promise but soured quickly. George still remembered the tension that gripped the farmhouse after their mother’s death. Ian had inherited her sharp tongue and unyielding demeanour, and Doris had withstood the worst of it.

 

George tightened his grip on the steering wheel, recalling the bruises Doris tried to explain away. Farm accidents, she’d called them. But George had known better. She stayed as long as she could—until Gerald was 23, Jerome 18, and Peter just 13. Then, finally, she left.

 

Would I have treated a wife like that? George wondered. Doris had always been kind to him, pulling him into family dinners, offering a listening ear. He shook his head. No. I’m nothing like Ian.

 

The headlights illuminated his modest house as he pulled into the driveway. The shadows of the maple trees stretched across the snowy ground like dark fingers reaching for something unseen. George stepped out of the car, his breath visible in the freezing air.

 

Inside, the house felt as it always did—silent, orderly, and empty. He hung up his coat and made a cup of tea, the sound of the kettle his only company. Sitting at the kitchen table, he stared at the steam curling from his mug.

 

Ian’s face flickered in his mind. His brother, stubborn and flawed, had been larger than life. And now, he was missing. The knot in George’s stomach tightened. He dropped his gaze to his hands.

 

“Something’s not right,” he whispered, though the words sounded hollow in the stillness.

 

In the silence that followed, George rubbed his palms together, as if trying to wash away a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

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