Chapter 17: Beneath the Surface

Welcome to Chapter 17

Chapter 16 revealed what prison bars alone could never contain: resentment, betrayal, and calculated self-preservation.

With the rifle confirmed as the murder weapon and the brothers locked up in Hull, pressure is mounting fast. Public defender Michael Swinwood delivers the grim legal reality: the Crown is circling, and someone’s expected to crack.

Then Doris visits—and drops a bombshell: Gerald should confess to save Jerome. Her words cut deeper than any legal threat. Gerald explodes. Jerome crumbles. The family fractures further.

Meanwhile, George McLeod moves in the shadows. With Peter now under his wing, George begins shaping him into something colder, something calculative—just like himself. His focus isn’t justice. It’s control. And maybe gold.

A vein of gold hidden in the land could rewrite the McLeods’ future—but only if George controls it. With Ian gone, Doris stands in his way. And Peter? He’s caught in the middle of a legacy that’s quickly becoming a burden.

In Chapter 17, alliances tighten, convictions deepen, and the past becomes more dangerous than the present. Because someone is going to pay for what happened to Ian McLeod—and not everyone is willing to share the cost.

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Chapter 17

 

Lavallee Interviews Doris McLeod

 

The Evening of Day 11:

 

Doris had arrived back in Brighton. As he approached her modest Brighton apartment, Lavallee found himself gripping the case file tighter than usual. It wasn’t just the questions about Ian’s death swirling in his mind—it was the haunting thought of Patsy. Patsy, whose disappearance years ago still lingered like an unresolved scar on his conscience. Doris had been in the periphery of that case, an almost-forgotten figure whose connection had seemed tenuous at the time. But now, standing on her doorstep, Lavallee felt the uneasy certainty that she might hold answers to more than one mystery.

 

When the door opened, Lavallee was greeted by a woman whose sharp eyes seemed to measure him instantly. Doris had an unyielding presence—her posture upright and her expression calm but wary. She was the picture of a woman who had weathered countless storms—resolute but visibly worn.

 

“You’re the detective,” she said, her voice steady, though her gaze betrayed curiosity.

 

“Detective Jean Lavallee,” he confirmed, holding out his badge. Her sharp features softened ever so slightly as recognition flickered in her eyes.

 

“You’re Patsy’s older brother,” Doris said, a note of wonder threading through her voice. “Jean Lavallee. Oh my God.” A short, mirthless laugh escaped her lips. “I had the biggest crush on you back then. But you … you were always too busy. Working, praying, studying—you barely noticed me.” Her smile was faint, almost self-mocking. “And now here you are, investigating Ian’s murder. What are the odds? Do you want to reminisce?

 

The mention of Patsy’s name hit Lavallee like a sudden drop in air pressure. He kept his face composed, but the words lingered, stirring old doubts and suspicions. Doris was Patsy’s best friend. She and her brother had been questioned all those years ago and cleared of wrongdoing, but Lavallee had never genuinely believed in their stories.

 

Doris sensed his tension. Her teasing tone gave way to something more cautious. “Come in,” she said after a moment. “I’ll answer what I can.” She paused, her lips twitching into an almost-smile. 

 

“Mrs. McLeod,” he said, his tone clipped but controlled, “I’m here on a serious matter. I’d prefer to keep this visit formal.”

 

A flicker of something—regret? pain? —passed over Doris’s face. “Of course,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. It was so long ago … I forget how fresh it must still feel for you.”

 

She led him into the living room, a sparse and meticulously tidy space devoid of personal touches. The absence of warmth struck Lavallee as deliberate—a life stripped down to essentials, as though attachments were a liability.

 

Doris motioned toward a chair and settled into one across from him. She reached for a cigarette from a pack on the side table, lit it with a practiced flick of her lighter, and took a slow drag. Smoke curled around her face, softening the sharp angles but adding to the air of detachment she seemed to cultivate.

 

Her posture was composed, her free hand resting lightly in her lap, while the other held the cigarette with an air of nonchalance. Her sharp gaze remained fixed on him, cutting through the haze like a blade.

 

“So, Detective,” she said, exhaling smoke in a steady stream, her voice even, “what do you want to know about Ian?”

 

Lavallee hesitated, the weight of unspoken questions pressing against his chest. What about Patsy? he wanted to ask. What did you and Réjean hide? But he forced the thought aside, his focus narrowing on the present.

 

He watched as Doris took another slow drag; her expression unreadable. The cigarette seemed almost like a shield, a deliberate act to control the pace of the conversation—or perhaps to obscure the truth behind the smoke.

 

“Why did you leave?” Lavallee asked.

 

She let out a short laugh. “Why? Because living with Ian was like carrying a weight that got heavier every day. He had rules for everything—how we talked, how we ate, how we breathed. And if you broke one of those rules. Her voice trailed off, her lips tightening. “Well, let’s just say Ian’s punishments weren’t subtle.”

 

“I need to understand Ian’s state of mind leading up to his disappearance,” Lavallee began, his tone professional. “Anything you can tell me about his plans, his behaviour, or the people he was in contact with could help.”

 

Doris nodded, her gaze momentarily drifting as though pulling from a reservoir of memories. “I’ll tell you what I know, Detective. But I warn you—nothing with Ian was ever simple.”

 

Doris paused, her composure faltering for the briefest moment. Her shoulders sagged slightly, as if weighed down by the memories she was about to unearth. Ian had been a difficult man—controlling in ways that extended far beyond the walls of their home. Everything had to be done his way, and that included the people around him: her, Gerald, Jerome. For years, she had endured it in silence, for the sake of the boys, for the sake of the family. Speaking out would have only made things worse; Ian had a way of escalating even the smallest resistance into a battle no one could win.

 

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the bitterness of old wounds. Lavallee observed her closely, noting the faint tremor in her voice and the tension in her posture. He leaned forward slightly, his tone measured, almost gentle. After she had left, did she feel safe? The question lingered between them, an invitation to pull back another layer of the past.

 

Doris’s lips pressed into a thin line, her expression hardening. Safe? What did that even mean? She remembered those early days vividly: the emptiness of leaving with nothing but her resolve, the burden of being a divorced woman trying to rebuild a life while her sons—young and confused—seethed with resentment. 

 

Her hands gripped the edges of the chair, knuckles whitening as she stared past Lavallee, lost in the weight of it all. Nothing she did had mattered. Ian’s presence loomed over the farm, over the family, even after she was gone. He controlled everything, a shadow that clung to them all like smoke from a fire that refused to die.

 

She looked up suddenly, meeting Lavallee’s gaze with a mixture of defiance and vulnerability that seemed to flicker like a candle in the wind. Silence, she admitted, had often felt like her only means of survival. Sometimes, it was easier to endure the storm quietly than to fight against a force so relentless, so unyielding.

 

Lavallee’s question hung in the air, deliberate and calm. “Had Ian ever threatened her life?” Doris’s eyes narrowed, sharp and defensive, the accusation implied in the detective’s words igniting something raw within her. Did he think she had killed Ian?

 

She straightened slightly; her voice cool but edged with indignation. Of course, she had every reason to want Ian gone—anyone who knew their history could see that. But Lavallee wasn’t here to make assumptions; he was here for the truth. Her sigh broke the silence, heavy and tired, as if the weight of her past had suddenly settled on her shoulders.

 

She hadn’t killed Ian, she said firmly. Leaving him had been her way of saving herself and Peter. Gerald and Jerome had already been too much like their father, their personalities shaped by his dominance. She couldn’t rescue them, not back then. Her voice wavered slightly; the regret buried beneath her words.

 

Lavallee’s pen moved across the page as he made a note. His tone remained neutral as he asked about February 4th and 5th. Doris’s response was quick, almost mechanical. She had been at work, her shifts at the Brighton Giant Tiger a predictable routine. Her manager could confirm it. Any time she wasn’t working, she was likely at home. The simplicity of her answer seemed to offer no room for doubt.

 

But the conversation shifted, and Lavallee pressed on, asking about the farm. Had Ian ever talked about selling it? Doris hesitated this time, her fingers twitching slightly against the chair. He might have mentioned it once or twice, she admitted, dismissing it as idle talk. Ian had said the farm wasn’t worth the trouble anymore, but she never thought he was serious.

 

Lavallee leaned forward slightly, his voice probing yet steady. If Ian had sold the farm, Doris would have received a portion of the money as his legal spouse, wouldn’t she? Doris’s reply came quickly, her tone sharp and clipped. Technically, yes, but the thought of receiving its proceeds or inheriting the farm after his death repulsed her. That place had always been a prison, its walls closing in even tighter under Ian’s control.

 

The detective’s gaze lingered on her face, searching for cracks in her composure. What about her relationship with Gerald and Jerome? Doris’s expression tightened, her answer curt and unyielding. Distant. She had visited them at the Hull jail, but the interactions had been cold. Gerald had dismissed her, ordering her to leave, while Jerome had barely spoken, his fear evident in his silence.

 

As she finished, Lavallee watched her closely, his pen still, his thoughts clearly turning. The lines of Doris’s life, of her choices and regrets, were beginning to form a picture—but whether it was one of guilt or survival remained to be seen.

 

Lavallee closed his notebook and stood. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. McLeod. If anything, else comes to mind, I hope you’ll reach out.”

 

“I’m sorry for what happened to Patsy,” Doris said, her voice softer now. “She was a good girl.”

 

Her words hung in the air, but Lavallee didn’t respond. He left without another word, the weight of her acknowledgment pressing against him as he walked into the frosty night.

 

A Conversation with George:

 

Later that evening, George McLeod arrived unannounced at Doris’s apartment. She sat at the kitchen table, a cigarette burning down to ash in the tray, her face pale and drawn.

 

“Lavallee came to see me,” she said as George poured himself a drink.

 

“What’d you tell him?” George asked, sitting across from her.

 

“The truth,” Doris replied sharply. “That Gerald probably killed Ian. And that Jerome’s too weak to have done it alone.”

 

George frowned. “You’re throwing Gerald under the bus now?”

 

“He wouldn’t listen to me,” Doris snapped. “He’s too much like Ian—angry, stubborn, reckless. If he drags us all down, what good does that do?”

 

George leaned back; his gaze cold. “Gerald might be reckless, but he’s loyal—to me, to Jerome. If he thinks you’ve turned on him, you’ll regret it.”

 

Doris’s hand trembled slightly as she took a drag from her cigarette. “Loyalty won’t save him. If the police find more evidence, he’s done.”

 

George didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he finished his drink in one smooth motion and stood. “Stick to the story, Doris. If you don’t, this whole family goes under.”

 

As he left, Doris remained seated, staring at the cigarette in her hand. She stubbed it out with trembling fingers, lighting another almost immediately.

 

The silence of the apartment wrapped around her, heavy and suffocating. She thought of the farm, Ian, and Patsy. Too many ghosts, too many secrets, and nowhere left to run.

 

For the first time in years, Doris McLeod wondered if freedom was even possible—or if she had already sealed her fate.

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