Chapter 25: Beneath the Surface

 Welcome to Chapter 25

Justice may arrive decades late, but it still knocks—cold, relentless, and unforgiving.

As one truth collapses the walls of the McLeod family, another, older secret finally rises from the depths.

Peter’s testimony sealed the fate of his uncle. Doris’s desperate confession cracked open the McLeod façade. And now, at last, the long-buried mystery of Patsy’s death has surfaced—through grief, guilt, and the heavy cost of silence.

Detective Jean Lavallee no longer carries this burden alone. The shadow of Patsy’s death, once a silent weight, now becomes a call to action. Réjean Pilon will be held to account. And a cold case may, at long last, be brought to light.

The past is no longer buried. It’s alive, and it’s demanding reckoning.

Chapter 25

 

Aftermath

 

A Year Later:

 

Detective Jean Lavallee drove into Harris Bay under a steel-gray sky, the spring thaw turning the roads to slush. It had been a year since Peter McLeod’s statement unraveled the truth of Ian McLeod’s murder and set in motion a chain of consequences that shattered the McLeod family. Now, Lavallee was back to meet with Sergeant Gilbert and Constable Mannion to finalize their case summary for Crown Prosecutor Sheila Summers.

 

The trio gathered in Gilbert’s office; stacks of paperwork spread out before them. The atmosphere was somber, tinged with the weight of a case that had consumed so much of their time—and their thoughts.

 

“As we wrap this up,” Gilbert began, “let’s reflect on where everyone landed.”

 

Peter McLeod, still just a teenager, had been processed through youth court for his role in covering up his father’s murder. The court showed leniency, sentencing him to two years of probation. His mother, Doris, and his brother Jerome also received two years of probation in adult court for their involvement in the conspiracy.

 

Gerald McLeod, however, walked free, his immunity deal secured by his full cooperation. He had wasted no time returning to his old life, selling soft drugs in the Brighton area. Lavallee had seen men like Gerald before—unrepentant and destined for a hard fall.

 

Doris McLeod, Ian’s estranged wife, inherited the family farm and liquidated it during probate. After paying off Ian’s debts, a modest sum remained, which Doris received. Most of it went to legal fees, though Doris managed a brief trip to Montreal. Her dream of Paris remained just that—a dream. She continued working at the Giant Tiger in Brighton, maintaining a strained relationship with her sons. Gerald, bitter and distant, avoided her entirely.

 

The most significant outcome was George McLeod’s fate. Convicted of first-degree murder, he was sentenced to 25 years in prison without parole. Summers had built a compelling case, proving that George’s actions were premeditated. In her closing argument, she had delivered a damning indictment:

 

“This man had the time and opportunity to reflect on his actions. And what did he choose to do? Murder his own brother over the mere possibility of gold. The irony is staggering—an educated man like George McLeod never even confirmed his assumptions. The gold he killed for was an illusion, its source long depleted. Avarice prevailed, a man was murdered, and justice demands you find George McLeod guilty.”

 

The jury had agreed.

 

As Gilbert recounted the details, Lavallee stared out the window, his thoughts distant. “It’s over,” Gilbert said, his voice heavy.

 

“No,” Lavallee murmured, almost to himself. “For the McLeods, it’s never over.”

 

A Visit to Mrs. O’Hara:

 

Before leaving Harris Bay, Detective Jean Lavallee made one final stop at Mrs. Beatrice O’Hara’s house. The matriarch of local gossip and history greeted him warmly at the door, her sharp eyes twinkling with curiosity.

 

“Detective Lavallee! What a surprise. Please, come in, come in,” she exclaimed, ushering him inside.

 

They settled at her worn kitchen table, the room steeped in the scent of cinnamon and raisin pie. She placed a generous slice in front of him, sitting down with a conspiratorial smile.

 

“You know, Detective,” she began, her tone playful but precise, “I’m a wily old bird. From the moment I saw your name on the booking sheet, I knew you were the same young lad who used to deliver newspapers to my door. You were earnest and well-raised. Then I remembered your sister’s death—Patsy, wasn’t it?” Her voice softened. “You didn’t tell me you were that boy, and I figured you had your reasons. I guessed they might have something to do with her, so I never pried. But today’s different. I figure you won’t be back in these parts again—not while I’m still here—so I wanted to say it. I know you’re that boy.”

 

Her gaze fixed on him with a mix of affection and knowing. “I just wanted you to hear this from me before you left: I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”

 

Lavallee blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her candour. For a moment, he felt the boy she spoke of—a boy who had lost so much—resurface beneath the detective’s stoic exterior. His voice caught in his throat before he managed a quiet, “Thank you.”

 

He straightened slightly, clearing his throat. “Mrs. O’Hara, your words mean more than I can say. Thank you for remembering her.”

 

Her expression softened further; the years etched on her face seeming to fade. “Oh, Jean,” she said gently. “Patsy was unforgettable.”

 

The room hung in silence for a moment before Mrs. O’Hara, with her characteristic energy, leaned in conspiratorially. “Now, Detective, what’s your final take on the McLeod murder? Don’t worry—this will stay between you and me.” She made an exaggerated motion of zipping her lips.

 

Lavallee chuckled at her theatrics, though the weight of her earlier words lingered. “I’ll share what I can, Mrs. O’Hara.”

 

He took a slow breath, his tone shifting to one of quiet reflection. “The McLeod case was never just about murder—it was about power, control, and the weight of inheritance. Ian McLeod was a man who demanded everything from his family but gave little in return. His sons, Gerald and Jerome, spent their lives under his shadow, struggling to find their own identities while shackled to his expectations.”

 

He paused; his gaze distant. “And then there’s George McLeod. On the surface, greed drove him to kill Ian, but it was more than that. He told me once, after his conviction, that his resentment toward Ian had been simmering for years. Ian inherited the farm simply because he was the eldest, while George worked tirelessly to keep it afloat. Watching Ian squander the legacy they were supposed to share fuelled his anger. The gold wasn’t the true motivation—it was the final excuse for years of suppressed rage.”

 

Mrs. O’Hara listened intently, her eyes narrowing in thought. “It sounds like a tragedy, doesn’t it?” she murmured. “A family tearing itself apart for something that was supposed to unite them.”

 

Lavallee nodded, his expression darkening. “It is. But the McLeods aren’t alone in that. This case … it made me realize how much we all carry from our families—sometimes as burdens, sometimes as chains.”

 

He hesitated, his thoughts shifting to Doris and Réjean Pilon. “And sometimes, silence is the heaviest burden of all. Doris McLeod stayed silent about Ian’s abuse because she feared for her family. And her silence about my sister Patsy… that’s something I’m still trying to reconcile. She thought keeping quiet would protect the ones she loved, but in the end, it left scars no one could see.”

 

Mrs. O’Hara leaned forward, her hand resting on Lavallee’s. “Jean, that sounds like guilt talking—not yours, but hers. People make choices in fear, not always knowing the cost.”

 

Lavallee’s jaw tightened. “Maybe. But fear doesn’t absolve us from the consequences. The McLeods are living proof of that.”

 

Mrs. O’Hara regarded him carefully. “And you, Jean? Have you found what you were looking for? For Patsy?”

 

He met her gaze, the ache of unresolved questions flashing in his eyes. “Not yet,” he admitted. “But I’m closer.”

 

The room fell silent, the only sound the ticking of a nearby clock. After a moment, Lavallee leaned back, a faint smile returning to his face. “Now, Mrs. O’Hara, I think you’ll enjoy what I’m about to tell you. It’s just the right amount of truth for your next card game.”

 

Her laughter rang out, warm and infectious. “Oh, Detective, you’re still the charmer you always were!”

 

The End