Page 7 of Logan’s Way

Angus nodded, filing that away. “And before digitization? What happened to older records?”

“Same thing. Transferred.” The woman was being polite, but her answers were getting shorter, more careful. “Is there a specific certificate you’re trying to verify?”

This was the moment. Angus could identify Logan, make this personal, turn the whole conversation into something different. Or he could stay neutral, keep it professional, preserve his ability to ask questions without triggering sympathy or suspicion.

He chose caution.

“Not verify exactly. Just trying to understand the process. I’ve got a case back in Weyport with some questions about documentation, and I wanted to see how other counties handle things.” He paused, then added carefully, “The registrar initial on this copy—J. Brennan—does that name sound familiar?”

The woman’s face went carefully blank. Not confused. Not surprised. Just…closed.

“I’d have to check our employment records.”

“Of course. I appreciate that.” Angus kept his voice even, giving her space. “Is there someone else I should talk to? Someone who might remember the filing procedures from several years back?”

“Our current county clerk might be able to help, but he’s not in today. You could leave your contact information, and he’ll call you when he’s available.”

Standard deflection. Polite but firm. Angus had used the same technique himself when civilians asked questions he didn’t want to answer. It was the bureaucratic equivalent of a door closing slowly but inevitably.

“I appreciate that.” Angus pulled out his notebook and wrote down his name and number. “If you could pass this along, I’d be grateful. It’s not urgent. I’m just trying to be…thorough.”

The woman took the paper with a nod that said the conversation was over. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Angus thanked her and turned to leave, then paused at the door. “One more thing, if you don’t mind. That certificate I showed you—do you happen to know if the file is still here? Or would it have been transferred with everything else?”

“Transferred,” the woman said without hesitation. Too quickly. Like she expected the question. “Anything that old would be at state archives by now.”

“Right. Of course.” Angus nodded. “Thanks for your time.”

He walked back through the lobby, past the empty reception desk, out into the cold that felt cleaner than the air inside. His truck sat where he’d left it, ice already forming on the windshield. The parking lot was still mostly empty. The building looked exactly as it had when he’d arrived—small, underfunded, forgettable.

Except now Angus knew something he hadn’t known before.

That woman had recognized something. Not the certificate itself, maybe. But the questions. The name J. Brennan. The careful inquiries about filing procedures and archived records.

She’d known what he was asking about.

And she’d shut him down with the efficiency of someone following a script.

Angus sat in his truck, not starting the engine yet, just thinking. The cold made the truck's metal contract with a soft creak. His breath fogged the windows. Outside, a few cars passed on the main road, life continuing its ordinary rhythm while Angus tried to piece together what had just happened.

The file had been transferred to state archives. Years ago, apparently.

Except Angus had spent enough time navigating bureaucracy to know when someone was being evasive. The woman hadn’t said she didn’t know where the file was. She’d said it was transferred. Like someone told her what to say when a person came asking.

Which meant someone had come asking before. Or someone had anticipated that someone would.

Either way, it suggested preparation. Deliberation. The kind of careful covering that happened when people wanted to make sure certain questions led nowhere.

Angus pulled out his notebook and wrote three things:

1. J. Brennan — woman recognized the name

2. File “transferred” — check state archives

3. Current county clerk not available — convenient

Then he added one more line and underlined it twice: