Page 8 of Logan’s Way

4. She was expecting these questions.

The realization crept over him like the cold seeping through the truck’s windows. This wasn’t just an old file with sloppy paperwork. This wasn’t a bureaucratic oversight or a clerical error that time had smoothed over.

Someone had filed that death certificate with deliberate imprecision. Someone had used vague credentials and minimal documentation. And someone—maybe the same person, maybe someone else—had made sure that anyone who came looking would hit not just a wall of polite deflection, but transferred records and unavailable supervisors.

Angus had crossed a line this morning, the moment he walked into that office. He’d moved from private doubt to public inquiry. He’d gone from studying documents in his guest bedroom to asking questions that made people uncomfortable.

And now someone, somewhere, knew he was asking.

He started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot, heading back toward the highway. The drive home would take three hours. He’d have plenty of time to think about what he’d learned—and what he hadn’t.

But their paperwork told a different story.

And whoever had filed Logan Reid’s death certificate had made very sure it would be difficult—maybe impossible—to trace anything back to a single person, a single decision, or a single truth.

Which meant someone had something to hide.

Angus just had to figure out who. And why.

And whether his brother was dead—or alive—when someone went to all that trouble to make the world believe he was gone.

The dead didn’t leave forwarding addresses.

Chapter Three

The Maine State Archives occupied a concrete building off Route 27 in Augusta, the kind of structure designed for function rather than impression. Angus arrived just after noon the day after his visit to Thornfield County, with the patience of a man who’d learned that answers came slowly or not at all.

The vital records division was on the second floor, behind security that checked his ID and asked the purpose of his visit. Angus kept it simple: verification of transferred county records. The guard waved him through without interest or comment.

Inside, the office felt like every archive Angus had ever visited—fluorescent lights, rows of file cabinets giving way to computer terminals, the quiet hum of climate control preserving decades of documentation. A few staff members worked at desks, and a reception counter separated the public space from the restricted archive areas beyond.

Angus approached the counter where a woman in her thirties was organizing file folders. Her name tag read K. Morrison, Records Specialist.

“May I help you?”

“I hope so.” Angus kept his tone easy, professional. “I’m trying to verify some information about a death certificate that was transferred from Thornfield County. I was told the records would be here.”

Morrison set her folders aside. “Do you have a certificate number?”

Angus pulled out his photocopy of Logan’s death certificate and pointed to the number in the upper right corner. “This one. I’m trying to confirm the filing date and registrar information.”

Morrison took note of the number, then turned to her computer terminal. Her fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced efficiency. “Let me pull up the index.”

Angus waited. The office was quiet except for the soft clicking of keys and the low murmur of someone on a phone call in the back. Through the windows, January light filtered gray and cold across the parking lot. Nothing about this felt urgent or dramatic. Just another day of bureaucratic routine.

Morrison’s screen loaded something that made her nod. “Okay, I’ve got the entry. Logan Reid, deceased, certificate issued…” She squinted at the screen. “March 2014. Thornfield County. Transferred to state records per standard protocol.”

“So the certificate exists in your system?”

“Yes. It’s indexed and logged. The vital statistics database shows it as processed and filed.” Morrison looked up. “What information are you trying to verify?”

“The registrar who filed it. The paperwork shows just an initial—J. Brennan—and I’m trying to confirm the full name and credentials.”

“That would be in the source file.” Morrison turned back to her computer. “Let me pull the original county submission.”

She typed, waited, frowned slightly, typed again. Her frown deepened.

“That’s strange.”