Chapter 22: Beneath the Surface

Welcome to Chapter 22

The walls are closing in—and the family that once conspired together now teeters on collapse.

As tensions crackle beneath the farmhouse roof, the McLeods gather for a meeting that is anything but routine. Detective Jean Lavallee sets the stage for confrontation, using old ground to shake loose buried secrets. Gerald has already spoken—and his silence now echoes louder than words.

Doris clings to control, George begins to unravel, and Peter, caught in the crossfire, watches the fragile façade start to crumble. The truth is circling them like wolves in the woods—relentless, inevitable.

The question isn’t if someone will break. It’s who… and when.

Chapter 22

 

Breaking Under Pressure

 

Continued Farmhouse Meeting – Day 17:

 

Outside, the spring snow fell steadily, draping the McLeod farm in an oppressive stillness. Inside, the cramped front room was heavy with tension. Detective Jean Lavallee stood by the window, his gaze fixed on Doris and George arguing on the porch. Their sharp gestures and clipped voices, though muffled by the snow, seemed to seep into the farmhouse itself.

 

Peter hovered near the doorway, pale and restless, shifting his weight anxiously. Lavallee turned and gestured toward him.

 

“Get them in here, Peter. We’re not waiting all day.”

 

Peter hesitated before stepping outside. Moments later, Doris and George entered the room, brushing snow off their coats. Doris’s face was taut, exhaustion lining her features, while George’s jaw was clenched, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

 

They joined Peter on the worn couch, sitting across from Lavallee, Constable Murray Mannion, and Sergeant Michael Gilbert. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantle. Lavallee remained standing, looming over the family as his calm voice sliced through the tension.

 

“We have a clear picture of what happened on February 4th,” he began. “Gerald has told us everything, and because of that, he won’t face charges. But the rest of you? You’re in serious trouble—conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and at least one murder charge. The evidence all points back to this family.”

 

Doris’s lips thinned, but her voice was sharp as she replied, “You don’t have anything. You’re bluffing.”

 

Lavallee’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll see. On February 4th, Ian argued with George, Gerald, and Jerome about selling the farm. George opposed the sale—likely because he had come across information about gold on the land. Ian was furious, and tensions escalated. Doris, you weren’t here that night, but you became involved soon after, didn’t you?”

 

Doris sat rigid, her hands gripping the chair’s edge. Lavallee pressed on.

 

““We know Ian was shot in his bed and that his body was moved to the snowdrift beside the barn. The rifle used to kill him was planted in Gerald’s room—by you, Doris.”

 

Doris flinched, her composure slipping for just a moment. Her voice turned sharp, defensive. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Lavallee’s tone remained steady, his gaze unrelenting. “I do. Gerald and Jerome didn’t plant it—they were in jail when it happened. George wouldn’t risk framing Gerald; he knows if Gerald cracks under pressure, all signs would lead straight back to him. And Peter? He has no reason to involve himself in this mess.

 

“But you, Doris? You had both the motive and the opportunity. Framing Gerald clears Jerome and Peter.You knew exactly what you were doing.”

 

The room went silent again, the weight of Lavallee’s accusation hanging in the air. Doris’s breathing quickened, and for a moment, it seemed she might deny it. But then, she sighed, her voice trembling.

 

“I did it.” Her confession was barely above a whisper but landed like a thunderclap. “I planted the rifle.”

 

Peter’s face crumpled in shock, his voice breaking. “Mom … why?”

 

Doris turned to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I thought I was protecting Jerome and you. If Gerald took the blame, we could move on. Ian was cruel to him—people would believe it was him. I thought … I thought it was the only way to keep us safe.”

 

Lavallee’s expression was unreadable, but his voice softened slightly. “What else did you do, Doris?”

 

Her hands trembled as she wiped at her eyes. “George called me that morning. He said Ian was dead and begged me to come to the farm. When I got here, Peter and George were already cleaning up. They wouldn’t tell me who did it—just said it was better if I didn’t know. I helped move the body to the snowdrift. 

 

George’s face contorted with anger. “Damn it, Doris!” he spat, standing abruptly. “Why the hell are you telling them this?”

 

“Because it’s the truth, George!” Doris shouted back, her voice cracking. “I can’t carry this anymore. Tell them what happened. Tell them the truth!”

 

All eyes turned to George, his pale face and darting eyes betraying his panic. For a fleeting moment, it seemed he might confess, but then he bolted.

 

“Stop him!” Lavallee yelled, but George was already out the door, sprinting toward his blue Taurus. The car roared to life, tires spinning wildly in the snow.

 

Mannion and Gilbert dashed outside, but George’s car fishtailed down the icy driveway and disappeared into the storm.

 

Inside the Farmhouse:

 

Doris collapsed into her chair, sobbing openly. Lavallee turned to Peter, his voice calm but firm,“Peter, did you kill your father?”

 

Peter trembled, his voice shaking as he answered, “No. I swear I didn’t.”

 

Lavallee nodded, his tone softening. “We’ll need your statement at the station. Take your time, but we expect you there within the hour.”

 

Doris looked up; her face streaked with tears. “We’ll be there. You have my word.”

 

Lavallee nodded and stepped outside, the biting wind and falling snow stinging his face. The storm had swallowed George’s tracks, but the cracks in the McLeods’ story were now fully exposed.

 

Lavallee knew this wasn’t the end—but it was the beginning of the unraveling.

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