Page 16 of Logan’s Way

“One moment.” The sound of typing, then, “Transfers from that period would have been processed by our records intake team. The supervisor back then was…” More typing. “Janet Cho. But she retired in 2019.”

“Is there anyone currently on staff who worked intake in 2014?”

“Let me check the personnel roster.” A longer pause. “Looks like David Park was on the intake team then. He’s still with us, but he’s out this week. Family leave.”

“Could you have him call me when he’s back? I have some questions about verification procedures.”

“I can pass along the message.”

Angus left his number and thanked her. Then he sat back and looked at his notes. He had searched for two hours, checking employment records, professional databases, state licensing, and verification procedures. He’d eliminated every plausible explanation for how J. Brennan could have been a legitimate county registrar.

And the conclusion was becoming undeniable.

There was no J. Brennan.

There never had been.

Someone had created a name and a signature and placed both on an official document. Had filed it through systems designed to catch exactly this kind of fabrication. Had gotten it accepted, archived, and made part of the permanent record.

Which meant someone with access to those systems had helped. Or someone with enough authority that their submission was never questioned.

Angus thought about the woman at the Thornfield County clerk’s office—about how she’d recognized the name. And deflected his questions. And about how she’d said the file was “transferred” with a certainty that suggested she’d been told exactly what to say if anyone came asking.

She’d known J. Brennan was fabricated—or at least suspected it strongly enough to shut the door on further inquiry.

And that meant this wasn’t just one person creating a fake signature. This was institutional. Multiple people, across multiple levels, cooperating to ensure Logan Reid was officially dead even though no one could prove he’d actually died.

Scout got up and padded over, resting his chin on Angus’s knee. The dog rested his chin there and huffed once, as if to say he'd noticed something was wrong even if he didn’t understand why.

Angus ran his hand through the dog’s fur, focusing on warm breath and the reassurance of solid presence. Outside, a car drove past. Somewhere down the block, a neighbor was shoveling their driveway. Ordinary Saturday morning sounds. Life continuing its normal rhythms while Angus sat in his kitchen dismantling the official story of his brother’s death.

He pulled his notebook closer and turned to a fresh page. At the top, he wrote:

J. Brennan — Evidence Review

Below that, he listed what he’d found:

County employment records: No record

professional registrar database: No certification

State licensing: No license

Archives verification: Processed but unverifiable

Then, at the bottom of the page, he wrote one final line:

J. Brennan does not exist. Never did.

And if the registrar never existed, then the certification process was built on at least one deliberate lie. Whether Dr. Carlisle was complicit or simply used, Angus couldn't yet say. But someone had placed a fabricated name on an official document and made sure it held up long enough to matter. Which meant the entire official declaration of Logan Reid’s death was built on documents that couldn’t withstand scrutiny.

Someone had created a paper trail that looked legitimate from a distance. Professional enough to satisfy cursory review. Official enough to be accepted by state systems designed to catch fraud.

But it wouldn’t hold up to focused examination. Wouldn’t survive someone actually checking whether the names on those documents connected to real people with real credentials.

Which suggested whoever had done this assumed no one would check. Or didn’t care if someone eventually did, because by then it would be too late to matter.

Angus looked at Logan’s photo pinned to his investigation wall in the guest bedroom. His brother at sixteen, before he’d disappeared. Before someone had decided he needed to be dead on paper. Before eighteen years of silence and searching and mourning someone who might have been alive the whole time.