Page 18 of Logan’s Way

The word protect hung in the air like smoke.

“I understand,” Angus said.

“Good. I’m glad we could clarify this before it became an issue.” Marsh’s voice warmed slightly, professional courtesy restored. “I know losing a parent is difficult. If you need resources—counseling, extended leave, whatever might help—your department has options.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And if you do need to pursue any questions about family records, the proper channels are there for exactly this reason. We just can’t have sheriffs running informal investigations through official systems. I’m sure you understand the liability concerns.”

“I do.”

“Excellent. Then I’ll make a note that we spoke and that you’re aware of the protocols going forward.” A brief pause. “Take care of yourself, Sheriff Reid. Grief is hard enough without adding complications.”

The call ended. Angus set his phone on the counter and stood in his kitchen, listening to the quiet. Scout watched him from the doorway, head tilted, waiting for a cue that something was about to happen. The coffee pot finished brewing, its soft gurgle the only sound.

They had been watching. Tracking his searches. Monitoring his access to databases that were technically public but had left digital footprints that someone was paying attention to.

And they’d called him. Personally. Before anything became “unnecessarily complicated.”

Which meant someone wanted him to stop before he found something they couldn’t dismiss as grief-driven curiosity.

Angus poured coffee and walked to the window. Weyport spread out before him—the harbor, the fishing boats, the streets he’d protected for years. His town. His responsibility. The place where people trusted him to uphold the law and maintain order, and to follow the rules that kept society functioning.

He’d built his entire career on believing the system worked. On believing that justice required patience and procedure. That truth revealed itself when you followed the evidence correctly and respected the boundaries that protected everyone’s rights.

But the system had lied to him. It had manufactured a death certificate. Had declared his brother officially deceased without ever proving he’d actually died. And when Angus started asking why, it noticed—and called to suggest he stop.

Not because he was wrong. Because he was close to something someone didn’t want examined.

Angus finished his coffee and rinsed the mug. Then he walked to the guest bedroom where his investigation wall had grown over the past week. Photos, documents, notes, timelines. Everything he’d gathered about Logan’s disappearance and the fabricated death that had followed.

On the desk sat his personal laptop—not department-issued, not connected to any official network. And in the filing cabinet he’d brought from storage sat decades of personal records his mother had kept. Birth certificates. Medical files. School records. The documentation of two boys who’d grown up far from home, raised by a single mother who’d protected them the best she could.

Angus opened his desk drawer and pulled out Logan’s file. The original missing person report was there, filed when Logan was sixteen. The one that had stayed open for years because there was never a body, never closure, never an official end.

He looked at the death certificate copy on his desk. The one that had appeared years after Logan was reported missing, signed by a registrar who didn’t exist, filed through a system that had accepted it without question.

Someone had closed Logan’s case. Had made sure Angus would stop searching. Had manufactured an ending that looked official enough to satisfy anyone who didn’t look too closely.

And now he’d received a call making sure he understood what continuing to look closely might cost him.

Angus pulled out his investigation notebook. He flipped to a fresh page and recorded the date.

Below it:

State Oversight called. My records searches have been flagged. Advised to stop without formal authorization.

Translation: They know I’m looking. They want me to stop.

He paused, pen hovering over paper. Then added another thought:

They don’t warn people who are looking in the wrong places.

The implications sank in, cold and undeniable. Continuing meant risking his badge—potentially compromising his department—and certainly crossing lines he’d spent two decades respecting and enforcing.

Stopping meant accepting that he’d been lied to for years. Meant letting whoever had manufactured Logan’s death remain hidden. Meant choosing his career over his brother.

Scout padded in and dropped his rope toy at Angus's feet, undeterred by the fact that Angus had ignored the last three attempts. Angus reached down and gave it a toss down the hallway. It was the least he could do.