Chapter 23: Beneath the Surface

Welcome to Chapter 23

The farmhouse has spoken—and the silence is shattered.

Doris McLeod has cracked, revealing the dark pact forged in secrecy and fear. Her confession turns suspicion into fact and draws a harsh spotlight on George. Now he’s fled into the snow, and the truth races behind him like a storm he can’t outrun.

Peter is caught in the wreckage—innocent or not, the last son standing. And Detective Lavallee, relentless in his pursuit, knows the hardest answers still lie ahead.

The McLeod family is breaking. And what’s about to rise from the ruins could be redemption—or ruin.

Chapter 23

 

Peter’s Statement

 

Into the Evening of Day 17:

 

Peter sat at the interview table, his hands trembling as he avoided eye contact with anyone in the room. His mother, Doris, sat beside him, her hand resting on his for comfort, though her face betrayed exhaustion and guilt. Across from them, Detective Jean Lavallee and Constable Michael Gilbert prepared to record his statement. The small interview room buzzed faintly with the hum of the recording device; the tension palpable.

 

“Peter,” Lavallee began, his voice calm but firm. “This is your chance to tell us everything. Take your time, but we need the truth.”

 

Peter swallowed hard and nodded. “It started when I found the gold,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was down by the river, where the creek flows into the Ottawa. Luke Pilon was with me. There were veins of gold running through the rocks.”

 

Lavallee leaned in slightly, signalling him to continue.

 

“I thought we’d struck it rich,” Peter said, his voice growing steadier. “I took the rocks to Uncle George. He always knew what to do. He told me to keep it quiet, not to tell anyone—not even Luke. He said Luke wouldn’t know real gold from fool’s gold, so we should make him think it was worthless.”

 

Peter’s breathing quickened as he recounted the events. “Uncle George said this could change everything for us, but only if we were careful. Then, later, my dad started talking about selling the farm. Uncle George flipped. He said if Dad sold the farm, we’d lose everything. I didn’t know what to do, so I stayed out of it.”

 

Peter hesitated, his hands clenching into fists. Doris placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

 

“Go on, Peter,” Lavallee urged gently.

 

“That night, after midnight, I heard Uncle George leave the house,” Peter continued, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know where he was going, so I followed him. It was snowing, and I could see his footprints heading toward my dad’s house. I didn’t want to go in, so I waited outside in the cold.”

 

Peter’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And then I heard three gunshots.”

 

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

 

“The front door opened, and Uncle George came out with Dad’s rifle,” Peter said, his voice trembling. “He looked shocked when he saw me. I asked him what he’d done, and he grabbed me by my jacket. He said he’d done it for me—for us—so we wouldn’t lose the farm.”

 

Peter’s voice broke. “He made me go inside to help clean up. I didn’t want to, but he said if I didn’t, people would think I did it. I saw Dad’s body … there was so much blood. I couldn’t stay in the room.”

 

Lavallee’s tone softened, though his expression remained serious. “What happened after that, Peter?”

 

“I called Mom,” Peter admitted, his voice shaking. “I didn’t know what else to do. She came right away. Uncle George was furious with me for calling her, but she helped him move the body to the snowdrift.”

 

Peter glanced at Doris; his eyes filled with guilt. “She told me not to say anything. She said we had to protect the family.”

 

Doris looked down; her expression unreadable. Lavallee turned to her. “Mrs. McLeod, is that true?”

 

Doris sighed heavily; her voice tinged with resignation. “Yes. Peter was terrified. George said we had to protect him—said Ian’s temper would’ve ruined us all. I didn’t want Peter to go to jail, so I helped cover it up. And yes, I planted the rifle in Gerald’s room. I thought if someone had to take the fall, it’d be him. “

 

George’s Arrest:

 

Meanwhile, Constable Mannion was trailing George McLeod’s Taurus along the Island Road. Snow pelted the windshield as the older car swerved on the icy road. Mannion’s cruiser stayed close, its red and blue lights cutting through the storm.

 

“Pull over, George!” Mannion shouted into the loudspeaker, but the Taurus swerved erratically, refusing to yield.

 

Mannion gritted his teeth and gripped the wheel tightly. Timing his move, he nudged the Taurus gently, forcing it toward the shoulder. George’s car skidded to a stop in the snowbank.

 

Mannion stepped out, his boots crunching in the snow as he approached. George sat in the driver’s seat, his hands still on the wheel, his face pale.

 

“Step out of the vehicle, George,” Mannion ordered.

 

George hesitated before slowly opening the door. Mannion grabbed his arm and turned him around to cuff him.

 

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Ian McLeod,” Mannion said.

 

George muttered under his breath; his voice barely audible. “This is it. It’s over.”

 

The Detachment:

 

When Mannion brought George into the detachment, the weight of the evening settled over everyone. As they passed the interview rooms, George caught sight of Doris and Peter through a small window. His shoulders slumped.

 

Lavallee intercepted Mannion in the hallway. “Trouble?”

 

Mannion shook his head. “No. He knows it’s over.”

 

Lavallee nodded grimly. “Let’s finish this.”

 

As George was led into an interrogation room, Lavallee knew the endgame was in sight. But he also knew that George wasn’t the only one who would have to answer for what had happened on the McLeod farm. The cracks in the family had been exposed, and now, it was time to piece together the truth.

 

When Lavallee exited the detachment, the night had settled into an eerie stillness. The air carried the sharp crispness of late winter, biting against his skin, and the absence of a moon cloaked the world in near-total darkness. The parking lot was deserted, lit only by the dim, flickering glow of a single streetlamp.

 

Lost in his thoughts, Lavallee didn’t notice the figure approaching from behind until he felt a hand tug at his right elbow. Startled, he turned sharply, instinctively reaching for his coat pocket.

 

“Jean,” a familiar voice whispered, low and urgent.

 

As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he recognized the form of Doris McLeod. Her features were barely discernible, but her voice carried a weight that made his pulse quicken.

 

“Jean,” she repeated, her tone trembling, though whether from the cold or her nerves, he couldn’t tell. “We need to talk.”

 

He straightened, wary yet intrigued. “Mrs. McLeod, it’s late. What’s this about?”

 

Doris leaned closer, her voice dropping further, just above a whisper. “This ghastly affair—everything that’s happened—it’s made me realize … I can’t keep carrying these secrets. I need to clean my soul, Jean. I need to tell someone. I need to tell you.”

 

Her words hung in the cold night air, charged with a mixture of desperation and resolve. Lavallee’s instincts flared—this wasn’t just a casual confession. Whatever Doris had to say, it was tied to Patsy’s death. 

 

He glanced around the empty lot, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “All right,” he said carefully, his voice steady despite the tension pulsing through him. “Let’s talk.”

Books.by/keith-landry-books.com