Chapter 16: Beneath the Surfacej

Welcome to Chapter 16

Chapter 15 delivered the breakthrough everyone was waiting for—and the twist no one expected.

A late-night anonymous tip. A hidden rifle in Gerald McLeod’s closet. A murder weapon suddenly, suspiciously, found. And with it, the case against the McLeod brothers escalated from shaky to shattering.

But Detective Lavallee isn’t celebrating. The scene feels too clean. The timing too convenient. He knows a frame job when he sees one.

Still, the courts don’t deal in instinct—they deal in evidence. The rifle pushes the Crown to file formal first-degree murder charges. Bail is denied. And the McLeod family? It fractures on the spot.

Doris and George refuse to bankroll a defense. Gerald rages. Jerome pleads. And for the first time, the McLeod brothers are left to face the storm alone.

In Chapter 16, Lavallee starts to ask the right questions—and realizes someone is carefully shaping the truth. But to what end? And who benefits most from what the world now believes?

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Chapter 16

 

Jailbirds

 

Day 11:

 

The Hull Detention Centre loomed over the city like a grim fortress, its cold, gray walls radiating an oppressive sense of inevitability. Inside, Gerald and Jerome McLeod were growing accustomed to the unrelenting monotony of incarceration: the clang of steel doors, the barked commands of guards, and the whispered politics of their fellow inmates.

 

For Jerome, every sound felt like a warning. His nerves were raw, his sleep fitful. For Gerald, the routine bred frustration. The limits of his physical confinement were nothing compared to the simmering rage he struggled to contain.

 

The Lawyer’s Strategy:

 

Four days after their arrival, their public defender, Michael Swinwood, finally visited. The sterile interview room amplified every scrape of a chair and shuffle of papers, heightening the tension.

 

Swinwood wasted no time. His wiry frame seemed energized by the tension in the air as he dropped a thick folder onto the table. “Let’s cut the crap,” he began, his freckled face fixed in an expression of weary determination. “The Crown’s building a case, and it’s not looking good for you.”

 

Gerald crossed his arms, his jaw tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means,” Swinwood continued, flipping through the file, “they’ve got a rifle—your rifle—pulled straight out of your closet. Ballistics have confirmed it is the murder weapon. Add to that your history of fights with your old man, and you’ve got motive, opportunity, and the weapon. Not exactly a winning hand.”

 

“That rifle wasn’t mine; it’s my father’s.” Gerald snapped, his voice echoing in the small room.

 

Jerome, sitting silently until now, spoke up hesitantly. “He’s right. Someone must’ve put it there.”

 

Swinwood leaned forward, his tone sharp. “You’re going to have to do better than that. Anonymous tips and planted evidence? It sounds like a bad TV plot. Unless you’ve got proof, you’re stuck with this.”

 

“Then find the proof,” Gerald growled. “That’s what we’re paying you for, isn’t it?”

 

Swinwood smirked. “Paying me? You’re on Legal Aid. You’re lucky I even showed up.”

 

The tension in the room thickened. After a pause, Swinwood’s tone softened slightly. “Look, the Crown doesn’t have a complete case yet. They’re banking on one of you breaking. My job is to make sure that doesn’t happen. So, stick to your story, keep your mouths shut, and let me handle the rest.”

 

A Mother’s Visit:

 

That afternoon, Doris McLeod arrived. The strain of the last weeks was etched into her face. Her normally neat bun was slightly askew, and the lines around her mouth seemed deeper. When she entered the interview room, Gerald’s glare was immediate.

 

“Mom,” Jerome said softly, rising to greet her.

 

Doris nodded but didn’t smile. She took her seat, folding her hands on the table. “I don’t have long. Took the bus here, and I need to catch the last one back to Brighton.”

 

“Thanks for the effort,” Gerald said sarcastically, leaning back in his chair.

 

Doris ignored the comment. “I’ve been thinking,” she began, her tone brisk. “Gerald, you should take a plea deal. Admit to killing your father in a fit of rage. If you do, Jerome can walk free.”

 

The words hit the room like a slap. Jerome’s eyes widened, darting between his mother and brother. Gerald’s face darkened.

 

“You want me to take the fall?” he said slowly, his voice low and dangerous.

 

“It’s not about blame,” Doris said, her voice faltering. “It’s about being practical. You’ve always been the stronger one, Gerald. Jerome—he’s not like you. He wouldn’t survive prison.”

 

“I’m stronger, so I’m expendable?” Gerald’s voice rose, his fists clenched on the table. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

 

“Gerald—”

 

“Get out,” he barked, standing abruptly.

 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Doris snapped.

 

“I said, get out!” Gerald slammed his fist on the table. Guards appeared at the door, but Doris had already risen, her back stiff as she walked out.

 

Jerome stared at the table; his shoulders slumped. Gerald remained standing, his chest heaving with anger.

 

Shaping Peter:

 

At his home, George McLeod sat at the kitchen table with Peter. The younger McLeod had just returned from school, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

 

“You’re late,” George said, not looking up from his coffee.

 

“Had a project meeting,” Peter replied, dropping his bag by the door.

 

George nodded. “Good. Keep busy. Nothing worse than idle hands.”

 

The two ate dinner in relative silence, the quiet punctuated only by the clink of utensils. Afterward, George set his fork down and looked at Peter.

 

“They found the rifle,” he said flatly.

 

Peter froze mid-motion, his fork hovering above his plate. “Dad’s?

 

George nodded. “It’s over for him. He’s too hot-headed to defend himself properly. Jerome might have a chance if Gerald takes the blame.”

 

Peter frowned, his unease growing. “You think Gerald will do that?”

 

“Doesn’t matter what Gerald wants,” George said, his voice heavy with finality. “We’ve got to think about what’s best for the family.”

 

Peter said nothing, but a knot formed in his stomach. George’s pragmatic tone unsettled him, but part of him couldn’t argue with the logic.

 

George leaned back, crossing his arms. “Look, Peter,” he began, his tone softening slightly. “This family doesn’t have much left. The farm’s a wreck, Gerald and Jerome are sinking fast, and your mother… well, she’s only ever looking out for herself.”

 

Peter flinched at the mention of his mother but didn’t respond. George pressed on.

 

“Do you remember last summer when you brought me those rocks from the river? The ones with the gold veins?” George asked, his gaze intense.

 

Peter nodded slowly, his pulse quickening. “You told me to keep it quiet. That it could change everything for us.”

 

George’s expression grew sharper. “I wasn’t lying, Peter. I sent those rocks off for testing. They were real. Gold, and not just traces—enough to mean something. But here’s the thing: those rocks didn’t come from nowhere. Gold like that doesn’t just appear. There might be a find in the rock beds on farm property. 

 

Peter’s eyes widened. “You think it came from the farm?”

 

“I don’t know for sure,” George admitted, his voice low and deliberate. “But I’ve been looking into it. The way the creek runs through the property, the way the land slopes—it’s possible, Peter. It’s more than possible.”

 

Peter’s heart thudded in his chest. “But there’s no actual vein, right? Just the rocks we found?”

 

“For now,” George said, leaning forward. “But if those rocks came from a vein near where you found the rocks, it could be on our land. And if it is … Peter, we’re talking about something that could change everything. For you, for me, for this family.”

  

Peter hesitated, the weight of George’s words pressing down on him. “And Ian—did he know about it?”

 

George’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “He found out because I let it slip during an argument. I didn’t mean to tell him, but I got careless. And you know your dad—he latched onto it. Thought he could sell the farm for more because of the ‘potential.’” George practically spat the word. “He didn’t care what it could mean for us. All he saw were dollar signs.”

 

Peter absorbed this, his unease growing. “So, he was still planning to sell, even after he knew?”

 

George nodded; his expression grim. “That’s the kind of man Ian was. Everything was about the short term with him. Never thinking about what could be. He wanted the farm gone, no matter what it cost the rest of us.”

 

Peter sat back, the implications swirling in his mind. “So … you think we should keep the farm. Just in case?”

 

George’s gaze locked on Peter’s; his voice steady but edged with resolve. “Not just in case, Peter. Because it’s ours. This is our chance to finally have something—to build a future that’s ours, not someone else’s. If we let this slip away, we lose everything. And I won’t let that happen.”

 

But even as he spoke with conviction, George couldn’t ignore the obstacle looming in his mind: Doris. The land was going to be hers, and she held the power to upend everything he envisioned. One way or another, he’d have to deal with her.

 

Peter nodded slowly, though the unease in his chest remained. George’s words were shaping him, hardening him, but they also carried a weight he wasn’t sure he wanted to bear. The gold, the farm, the arguments—it all felt bigger than him, like a storm he couldn’t control.

 

“What about Gerald and Jerome?” Peter asked hesitantly. “What happens to them?”

 

George’s expression hardened. “They’ve made their choices. Gerald’s arrogance got him into this mess, and Jerome—he’s always been a follower. We can’t afford to let their mistakes drag us down. You’ve got a future ahead of you, Peter. Don’t let them ruin it.”

 

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. As Peter stared at his uncle, trying to decipher the man behind the words, he realized that George’s obsession wasn’t just about the gold. It was about control, about holding on to the one thing Ian couldn’t take from him.

 

For George, the gold was more than a possibility—it was a lifeline. And for Peter, it was a reminder that even hope came with a cost.

 

Conclusion:

 

The McLeod family was fracturing under the weight of accusations, betrayals, and impossible choices. Gerald’s anger burned hotter, Jerome’s fear deepened, and Peter found himself drawn into a world of cold pragmatism.

 

For Detective Lavallee, the case was no longer about Ian McLeod’s murder. It was about unraveling a web of lies, power plays, and generational conflict. The rifle was a clue, but the truth was buried much deeper.

 

And Lavallee knew that digging it out would come at a cost.

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