Chapter 13: Beneath the Surface

Welcome to Chapter 13

Chapter 12 shattered the illusion of control.

As Sûreté officers arrived on Blackstone Isle, Gerald and Jerome McLeod were no longer suspects—they were accused. Arrested for their father’s murder and led away in full view of the island, their story cracked wide open. The air of casual defiance they had once worn now gave way to uncertainty and fear.

At the detachment, reality closed in fast. The autopsy report destroyed their timeline, the Crown Prosecutor arrived with a case, and Paul O’Grady’s sharp legal instincts could only buy time—not freedom.

And under the glare of interrogation lights, cracks widened further. Gerald stood his ground with practiced bravado, while Jerome trembled under the weight of doubt and temptation. Offers were made. Pressure applied.

But loyalty can be a prison too—and Jerome isn’t sure how long he can carry both the silence and the guilt.

In Chapter 13, the case deepens. Tensions rise. And for the McLeod brothers, the path forward grows darker with every word they refuse to say.

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Chapter 13

 

The Huddle

 

Day 4:

 

George McLeod climbed into his blue ’85 Taurus parked outside his modest country home, muttering to himself as he settled into the driver’s seat.

 

“What a wasted weekend,” he grumbled, the past two days consumed by fruitless meetings and phone calls. Between securing legal counsel for his nephews and pressing Sergeant Gilbert for updates, George felt no closer to a resolution.

 

At 3 PM, George started the engine and headed toward Doris McLeod’s apartment in Brighton. O’Grady’s latest update weighed heavily on him: if the judge upheld the first-degree murder charges, Gerald and Jerome would be transferred to Hull, complicating their legal defence even further.

 

Unbeknownst to George, a grey Dodge Caravelle was parked discreetly near the main road, hidden behind a haystack. Inside, Constable Murray Mannion watched George’s house with the practiced patience of a hunter. As the Taurus pulled out onto the road, Mannion waited a moment before following at a careful distance, his vehicle blending seamlessly into the sparse rural traffic.

 

The Drive to Brighton:

 

For George, the drive into Brighton was uneventful. For Mannion, it was an exercise in precision. He maintained a steady distance, letting a delivery van act as a buffer. The grey Caravelle tailed George’s Taurus across the bridge to the mainland, weaving through light highway traffic until they reached the outskirts of Brighton.

 

George turned off the main road onto a quiet residential street and parked in front of a modest apartment building. Mannion slowed, parking inconspicuously a few houses down. From his vantage point, he watched George exit his car and disappear into the building.

 

Stepping out of his vehicle, Mannion approached the apartment’s mailboxes, jotting down the names on the slots: D. McLeod and P. McLeod.

 

“Doris and Peter,” he murmured. “Interesting.”

 

Returning to his car, Mannion decided to wait. Something about George’s involvement—and the lengths he was going to—didn’t sit right with him.

 

Inside Doris’s Apartment:

 

Peter greeted George at the door, his expression wary.

 

“Mom’s in the kitchen, getting dinner ready,” he said, motioning for George to follow.

 

In the kitchen, Doris was sliding a roast into the oven. She looked up and smiled, giving George a quick kiss on the cheek.

 

“Hope you don’t mind,” she said with a chuckle. “It’s a discounted round roast from Giant Tiger—past its date, but too good a deal to pass up.”

 

“No complaints from me,” George replied, settling into a chair. “Thanks for having me.”

 

As Doris busied herself with the meal, the conversation turned somber, centering on the brothers’ legal troubles.

 

“We’re in serious trouble if the boys get transferred to Hull,” George said. “It’ll complicate everything—especially keeping O’Grady on the case.”

 

Doris’s face tightened. “Then we’ll apply for a public defender. Gerald and Jerome are broke, George. I’m not about to throw my money away on lawyers when I’ve got my own future to secure.”

 

George raised an eyebrow. “Doris, they’re your sons.”

 

Her voice sharpened. “Don’t lecture me about my sons. I’ve suffered enough because of Ian, and I won’t risk everything I’ve worked for. Besides, neither of them has it in them to have murdered their father. Maybe Gerald, but Jerome? No chance.”

 

She paused, gripping the counter as memories resurfaced. “Gerald … he never defended me. Not once. And now he’s in this mess.”

 

Peter, seated quietly at the table, shifted uncomfortably. “Mom’s right. Jerome’s not a killer. Gerald’s the one who hated Dad enough to …” He trailed off, avoiding his uncle’s gaze.

 

George leaned forward, lowering his voice. “If we focus on Gerald as the sole actor, it might work in everyone’s favor. We play up the abuse angle. Gerald snaps—it’s believable. Temporary insanity could significantly reduce his sentence.”

 

Peter nodded slowly, his thoughts drifting back to the previous summer when he had discovered rocks flecked with gold near the Ottawa River. Excited by the find, he had shared it with George, who had immediately insisted on keeping it a secret. George had gone so far as to hide the certificate verifying its value. Peter had agreed, driven by a complex blend of loyalty to his uncle and the ambivalent feelings he harboured toward his brothers.

 

“Peter,” George said sharply, snapping him out of his reverie. “Do you agree with your mom? Should Gerald take the fall?”

 

Peter hesitated. “I think … it makes sense. Gerald has the motive. Jerome doesn’t. The authorities would buy that story.”

 

Doris added, “It might be the only way to avoid years of trials and legal fees. If Gerald pleads out, Jerome could walk away clean.”

 

The room fell silent as the weight of their plan settled over them. George broke the tension with a wry smile. “We’ll work out the details. For now, let’s focus on damage control. If Gerald confesses, we need to make sure the story sticks.”

 

 

Outside the Apartment:

 

From his parked car, Mannion observed the apartment building closely. He noted the duration of George’s visit and the occasional shadow crossing the windows.

 

“This doesn’t feel like a family in crisis,” he muttered. “It feels like they’re plotting something.”

 

When George finally emerged, Mannion started his car. He kept his lights off, following the Taurus back to George’s house under cover of darkness. By the time George parked and entered his home, it was close to midnight.

 

Mannion jotted down a final note in his logbook:

 

    March 11, 1988 – George McLeod’s movements suggest coordination with Doris and Peter McLeod. Potential complicity in covering up Ian McLeod’s murder.

 

Satisfied, Mannion drove off, the quiet hum of the Caravelle disappearing into the night.

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