Chapter 8: Beneath the Surface

Welcome to Chapter 8

Chapter 7 brought a temporary release—but no relief.

Gerald and Jerome McLeod may be out of custody, but freedom tastes hollow when every word, glance, and lie is under surveillance. Back at the farmhouse, they return to old habits, numbing their fear with beer and false confidence. But Uncle George arrives like a hammer—smashing complacency and delivering a chilling reminder: they’re not in the clear.

George’s warnings are blunt. Detective Lavallee is still circling, the gun is still hidden, and the cracks in their story are getting harder to paper over. As pressure builds, mistrust festers—not just between the brothers and the law, but between the brothers themselves.

And questions about a will—and inheritance—raise new stakes.

In Chapter 8, expect rising tension, deeper fractures, and more ghosts clawing their way to the surface. Because in Harris Bay, freedom is never free—and silence never stays intact for long.

Click here to subscribe for new chapter updates

Chapter 8

 

Doris McLeod

 

That Same Evening – Day 2:

 

Doris McLeod had learned to carry pain, but guilt was not among her burdens. As she walked briskly through the biting March wind toward the diner, her thoughts drifted to the life she had left behind. Leaving Ian a year ago had been her only choice, and she felt no regret. She had endured decades of his wrath, his cold silences, and his sudden bursts of anger. Walking away wasn’t abandoning her family—it was saving herself.

 

Jerome and Gerald were grown men. They could stand up to Ian if they wanted to. She no longer felt obligated to suffer on their behalf.

 

Ian’s death had cracked open a door she hadn’t dared to look through while married. With no will and no divorce, the farm—and everything tied to it—might now fall to her. The thought was dizzying. For so long, freedom had felt like a distant dream, but now it loomed close, tangible. For the first time in years, Doris allowed herself to imagine a life beyond Blackstone Isle, a life far removed from the farm and the tangled mess of her family.

 

Paris—The word came to her as it often did, unbidden but intoxicating. She’d dreamed of Paris since she was a girl, poring over library books with faded pictures of the Eiffel Tower and sunlit cafes. Ian had laughed when she mentioned it during their early years, dismissing her dreams as frivolous. Now, the thought of walking along the Seine, a life unencumbered by duty and disappointment, felt like the escape she had always needed.

 

The diner came into view, its warm glow cutting through the evening chill. Inside, she slid into the booth where her coworkers were gathered, their laughter and chatter a welcome distraction.

 

“Something smells good,” she said, forcing a smile as she picked up a menu.

 

For a while, the lively conversation carried her away, but as the evening wore on and her coworkers drifted home, her thoughts returned to her boys.

 

Doris reached into her bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out and lighting it with a flick of her lighter. She inhaled deeply, exhaling a slow stream of smoke that curled upward toward the fluorescent diner lights.

 

Theresa frowned slightly but didn’t say anything. She’d seen Doris turn to cigarettes more frequently in the past few months, a quiet rebellion against the weight pressing down on her.

 

Doris took another drag, then spoke, her voice low. “I think I own the farm now.”

 

Theresa blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

 

“Ian never had a will,” Doris explained, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “We weren’t divorced, and with him gone … everything defaults to me. The house, the land, the debt—everything.”

 

Theresa leaned in, her brows knitting with concern. “Are you sure? Did you talk to anyone about it?”

 

Doris nodded. “A lawyer confirmed it. It’s mine. The boys don’t know yet. Well, not officially. I don’t think Gerald and Jerome have thought that far ahead, and Peter… Peter’s too decent to assume.”

 

Theresa studied her friend carefully. “So, what are you going to do?”

 

Doris stubbed out her cigarette with deliberate precision. “Sell it. As soon as I can. That farm has done nothing but ruin lives. Ian’s father, Ian himself, and now it’s threatening to do the same to Gerald and Jerome. They’d fight over it for years, and for what? A cursed piece of land?”

 

“And Peter?” Theresa asked softly.

 

Doris’s expression softened. “Peter deserves better. He has a chance to escape all of this. I’ll make sure of it. The money from the sale—some of it will go to his future. He can leave and build something for himself.”

 

Theresa tilted her head, watching Doris carefully. “And you? What do you want, Doris?”

 

Doris hesitated, the question catching her off guard. She took another drag of her cigarette, the smoke hanging in the air between them. Finally, she smiled faintly, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her hardened exterior. “Paris,” she said softly. “I’ve always wanted to go. It’s silly, but I want to walk along the Seine, sit in a café, and finally feel … free.”

 

Theresa reached across the table, her hand covering Doris’s. “That’s not silly. That’s hope. And it sounds like exactly what you deserve.”

 

Doris gave a small nod, her fingers curling briefly around Theresa’s. “First, I’ll sell the farm. Then … maybe I’ll finally start thinking about Paris.”

 

Theresa smiled, raising her coffee cup in a mock toast. “Here’s to Paris. And here’s to you, Doris.”

 

Doris clinked her mug gently against Theresa’s, her lips curving into a genuine smile. For the first time in years, she let herself believe in the possibility of a life beyond Brighton.

 

Memories of Her Sons:

 

Jerome, her middle son, had always been the quiet one, retreating into himself whenever Ian’s temper flared. She recalled how he would vanish during the worst of the fights, finding solace in the barn or the woods. Gerald, on the other hand, had taken Ian’s fury head-on. As the eldest, he had been Ian’s target for years, and while he pushed back as he grew older, it had never been for her. Gerald fought for himself, never for her.

 

Peter, her youngest, had been her saving grace. He had left with her, choosing stability over the chaos of the farm. But even Peter couldn’t resist the pull of his family. He returned often, still clinging to the belief that something salvageable lay in the wreckage of their lives. Doris wished he wouldn’t go back. She had long since stopped believing in redemption for Ian—or for the family he had broken.

 

 

A Conversation with Peter:

 

When Doris returned home, the kitchen light was on, and the familiar sound of Peter moving about greeted her. Dropping her coat by the door, she followed the noise into the kitchen.

 

“Hi, Mom,” Peter said, looking up from a sandwich.

 

“Hi, sweetheart.” She kissed the top of his head. “Did you go out to the farm today?”

 

Peter nodded. “After school. Took the bus. Saw Gerald and Jerome. They’re … not great.”

 

Doris frowned, sitting down across from him. “What do you mean?”

 

Peter shrugged; his expression guarded. “Same old stuff. Gerald’s angry at the world, and Jerome’s hiding in the barn. The place is falling apart.”

 

Doris sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t go out there.”

 

“I know,” Peter said quietly. “But they’re my brothers. I can’t just ignore them.”

 

“They’re grown men,” Doris said sharply. “You don’t have to clean up their messes.”

 

Peter set down his sandwich, his voice soft but steady. “I’m not trying to clean up anything. I just … I feel bad. For them. For Dad. For you.”

 

Doris’s chest tightened. “You have nothing to feel bad about, Peter. You’ve done more than enough.”

 

He didn’t reply, and she reached across the table, resting her hand on his. “You’re the only one with a real chance, Peter. You’re smart, you work hard. You can get out of this mess.”

 

Peter’s gaze met hers, his eyes filled with quiet determination. “I don’t want to leave them behind.”

 

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. “Sometimes, you have to,” she said softly. “It’s the only way to survive.”

 

Dreams of Paris:

 

That night, as Doris lay in bed, she allowed herself one last thought of Paris. The dream seemed closer now, tantalizingly within reach. But Ian’s death and the family he had left behind cast a long shadow. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her sons—and their connection to the farm—would pull her back before she could truly break free.

Books.by/keith-landry-books.com