Page 4 of Logan’s Way

Angus studied the witness signature—a quick scribble, barely legible. Then he looked at the typed information below it. Not J. Brennan, Registrar with proper formatting. Not Jennifer Brennan or John Brennan with a full title.

Just “J. Brennan, Registrar.”

No first name spelled out. No official title formatting. No stamp or seal. Just a signature and an initial.

He flipped back to the autopsy report. Dr. Carlisle’s credentials were listed in full on the header: “Raymond A. Carlisle, M.D., County Medical Examiner, Thornfield County Coroner’s Office.”

Professional. Complete. Official.

The death certificate should have matched that formatting. Should have followed the same protocol. Instead, it was vague. Informal. Almost…hasty.

Angus pulled another document from his stack—a death certificate from a case he’d worked two years ago, when a fisherman had died of exposure out on the water. He compared the formatting. That certificate listed “Emma Rodriguez, Deputy Registrar, Weyport County Clerk’s Office” complete with a stamp and seal number. Full title. Full name. Traceable.

This one just said “J. Brennan, Registrar.”

Like someone had filled in a blank and moved on. Like someone hadn’t wanted to leave too clear a trail.

Or like someone had copied the format wrong.

Angus set both documents side by side, studying them under the lamp. The fisherman’s death certificate was crisp, official, properly formatted. Logan’s looked…close. But not quite right. Like a photocopy of a photocopy, with details lost in translation.

He reached for his phone, then stopped.

Who would he call? Murphy had already done everything she could through official channels. Miguel was running the department and didn’t need Angus dropping a bombshell about his brother possibly being alive. The state registrar’s office would want documentation, jurisdiction, and a case number before they’d talk to him.

And Angus didn’t have a case. He had doubts. He had inconsistencies. He had a signature that didn’t match protocol, an ancestry test that said “deceased,” and a figure at a funeral who might have been his brother or might have been desperate hope made flesh.

He didn’t have proof.

Not yet.

Angus set the medical history folder aside and opened the desk drawer where he had been storing everything else related to Logan for the past eighteen years. The original missing person report sat on top—yellowed now, edges soft with handling. Filed when Logan was sixteen. “Status: Open. Outcome: Unknown.”

He’d read that report so many times he could recite it. “Height: 5’10” (still growing). Weight: 155 pounds. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Blue. Last seen: Tuesday evening, leaving the house around 8 p.m. Clothing: Dark jacket, jeans, sneakers. Distinguishing marks: Small scar on left forearm from childhood bicycle accident; surgical scar, right abdomen, from appendectomy at age fourteen.”

The appendectomy scar. The same detail that didn’t quite match in the autopsy report.

Angus pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote three words in the center: Who filed this?

Not who signed it. Not who performed the autopsy. Those were professional roles, traceable positions. But who actually filed the death certificate? Who walked it through the system? Who made sure Logan Reid’s status changed from “missing” to “deceased”?

J. Brennan, Registrar.

A name without a face. An initial without a trail. A signature on a document that determined whether Angus spent eighteen years searching for a living brother or mourning a dead one.

Outside, snow had started falling—small, hard flakes that hit the window like tapping fingers. Scout stood, stretched, and padded over to rest his chin on Angus’s knee. The dog’s warmth was solid, real, present. Everything this investigation wasn’t.

Angus looked at the autopsy report, the death certificate, and the missing person file that had defined half his life. Three documents. Three different versions of truth. And somewhere beneath them, a brother who was either buried in Thornfield County or walking around, breathing, and living a life that required eighteen years of silence.

The discrepancy wasn’t catastrophic. Wasn’t smoking gun evidence. Just a formatting issue, a protocol deviation, a bureaucratic irregularity that most people would overlook entirely.

But Angus Reid had built a career on noticing what other people overlooked. And this—this felt wrong in the particular way that truth felt when someone had tried to reshape it into something easier to accept.

He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again.

Then he opened a new note and typed one sentence.

Tomorrow: Thornfield County Clerk’s Office. Find J. Brennan.