Chapter 3: Beneath the Surface

 

Welcome back.

Before a body was found in the snow and two sons were arrested, there was only a silence—and a brother’s rising unease. In this chapter, we travel back three weeks to feel the first tremors of something deeply wrong. George McLeod senses it. His brother Ian has vanished. And while the island whispers vacation, George suspects something far darker.

Already hooked? Keep reading—and tell me: when did you start to suspect something wasn’t right

Chapter 3

 

Ian McLeod

 

Ian McLeod, the enigmatic farmer of Blackstone Isle, worked the land on a sprawling 200-acre farm. Most of it was tillable, but patches of woodland interrupted the flat fields, an unruly reminder of nature’s persistence. To his neighbours, Ian had once been a figure of respect—a dedicated family man and a hard-working farmer. But that image began to crack a year earlier, after his wife Doris packed her bags and left him.

 

The once-pristine property grew unkempt: fences sagged, tools rusted where they had been abandoned, and the fields held more weeds than crops. Rumours swirled in the close-knit community, whispers about Ian’s temper, his cruelty toward his wife, and the growing resentment between him and his children.

 

Ian McLeod had always been a reserved man, his interactions with the world often mediated through his brother, George. The two were inseparable in public, frequenting the island’s lone bar most evenings for a single beer. Neither brother drank much, but those quiet hours offered an escape for Ian—a brief reprieve from the mounting chaos of his life.

 

The farm had been Ian’s inheritance, passed down from their father as the birthright of the eldest son. But Ian often wondered, in his rare moments of introspection, if George should have been the one to take it on. As children, George had shadowed their father, soaking up every lesson about soil and seed, seasons, and livestock. He worked the land with a devotion that Ian never shared.

 

Ian, in contrast, had always been restless. He hated the monotonous rhythm of farm life and barely scraped through school. When their father died, George seemed willing—eager, even—to take over. But tradition had prevailed, and the farm had gone to Ian.

 

With the farm came responsibility for their aging mother, a woman as sharp-tongued as she was demanding. Ian’s inability to manage her relentless criticisms added another layer of stress to his already chaotic life. Doris endured the most of it. She had tried, at first, to keep peace, but Ian’s inability—or unwillingness—to stand up to his mother drove a wedge between them. When forced to choose, Ian sided with his mother.

 

The marriage unraveled, first in whispers and slammed doors, then in silence. Doris’s departure had been seismic, leaving Ian alone with two sons he hardly understood and a farm that now felt more like a prison than a legacy.

 

Ian’s relationship with his children was no better. His eldest, Gerald, had always been headstrong, a trait Ian saw as defiance. Their clashes were frequent and bitter, especially as Gerald grew older and began carving out a life of his own, one that included a marijuana business Ian disapproved of but grudgingly tolerated. Jerome, the middle child, was quieter but no less rebellious. His defiance was subtle—missing chores, avoiding his father’s gaze, and standing silently beside Gerald during their arguments.

 

Peter, the youngest, had been Ian’s one solace. Their bond, though strained, was closer than the others. But Doris had taken Peter with her when she left, leaving Ian with only his bitterness and guilt. When Peter began visiting the farm again months before Ian’s death, it reignited a spark of hope in Ian’s life—but also a deep jealousy. Peter seemed more at ease with George than with Ian, a fact that gnawed at him in silence.

 

A few months before his death, Ian experienced a rare moment of clarity. Standing in the kitchen, surrounded by unwashed dishes and the oppressive silence of an empty house, he allowed himself to dream of a different life.

 

He would sell the farm.

 

The thought came unbidden, shocking in its simplicity. He would unburden himself of the land and the legacy that had shackled him for so long. He’d find a small place in Brighton, maybe near Doris, and offer her a share of the sale. Perhaps they could start again—not as husband and wife, but as something kinder.

 

But Ian kept his plans to himself. Admitting them felt like weakness, and he feared the reaction of those around him. Gerald would see it as betrayal, Jerome as failure, and George—well, George would pity him. Ian couldn’t bear the thought.

 

The days dragged on, filled with the endless monotony of farm work. But Ian began to see the land differently, as if each fence he repaired and each field he tended was a goodbye. One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he stood on the edge of the property, the wind rustling the tall grass. The woods loomed in the distance, dark and impenetrable, a stark contrast to the ordered rows of crops before him.

 

“This farm was supposed to be my legacy,” he thought, gripping the wooden fence tighter. But now it felt like a tomb.

 

In the distance, he spotted Gerald’s truck pulling up, Jerome in the passenger seat. Ian’s jaw tightened. Maybe tonight he’d tell them the truth. Or he’d bury it deeper, like he had everything else.

Click here to sign up for chapter updates

(Subscribers will be notified of new chapter releases, bonus content, and future book news.)

Books.by/keith-landry-books.com