Page 14 of Logan’s Way

And now he understood why.

If Logan had crossed paths with something like this⁠—

if his life had brushed against consequences this severe⁠—

then Angus had been asking the wrong questions for years. Into a life that had somehow intersected with this world — trafficking, predators, victims like Elena Martinez — in ways Angus couldn't yet define. Whether Logan had been a victim of it, a witness to it, or something else entirely, he couldn't say. Not yet.

The law was right. Justice through proper channels was right. Angus believed that with every fiber of his being.

But Marcus Volk was gone. And Elena Martinez was free. And somewhere between those two facts lay a truth that made Angus’s faith in the system feel inadequate.

He pulled out his notebook and wrote a single line:

If Logan had been anywhere near something like this, then finding him wouldn’t just bring answers.

It would force Angus to confront what justice looked like when the law arrived too late.

And whether some truths came with a cost that couldn’t be undone once spoken.

The words sat on the page, undeniable and troubling. The ATM withdrawals Murphy had traced moved west. Nevada was west. Las Vegas was west. Volk's network had operated out of Las Vegas. It wasn't proof — it wasn't close to proof — but it was the kind of geographic alignment that sheriffs learned not to dismiss. If Logan had ended up in that world somehow, if his path had crossed Volk's network at the wrong moment or the right one, then eighteen years of silence suddenly had a shape Angus could almost recognize. And if that shape was what he feared — or what he hoped — then finding his brother meant confronting a cost Angus wasn't sure he was ready to measure.

Because the question wasn’t whether they broke laws.

It was who bore the weight of that choice.

The question was whether the people he’d saved would have been better off if he’d followed it.

And Angus didn’t have an answer to that.

Before closing the laptop for the night, Angus pulled out one more folder—a compilation of regional cases Miguel had sent over earlier in the week. Similar patterns across New England. Predators who’d relocated suddenly. Victims who’d reported feeling safe after months of documented fear. Craig Mercer. Bangor. Three restraining order violations against Amy Doyle. The file showed escalating behavior—showing up at her workplace, her gym, her apartment building. Each violation documented, each response inadequate. Then four months ago—nothing. Mercer quit his job, abandoned his lease, left the state, never contacted Doyle again. Her follow-up statement to Bangor PD: "I feel safe for the first time in years. I don't know what changed, but something did."

The pattern fit. The timing fit. Someone had stepped in where the law had failed. Another gap filled. Another victim protected. Another intervention. He added Mercer's name to the list before closing his laptop.

Outside, Weyport settled into winter silence. The questions multiplied faster than the answers.

Chapter Five

Morning arrived gray and cold, the kind of January day that made Maine feel like it existed at the edge of the world. Angus sat on his front porch with a mug of coffee, Scout settled beside him on the weathered boards. The harbor was barely visible through the fog, but he could hear the water—steady, rhythmic, patient.

He’d spent the night thinking about Marcus Volk and Elena Martinez and the pattern that was beginning to emerge after eighteen years of silence. But it was speculation. Theory. The kind of thinking that led investigators down paths built on assumptions rather than evidence.

Lord, I need clarity, he thought, watching each exhale mist the cold air. Not answers yet. Just the next right step.

The prayer was simple, habitual. Angus had learned a long time ago that faith wasn’t about certainty—it was about trusting the path even when you couldn’t see where it led. And now that path was leading him toward truths that would change everything. He needed to be sure. Needed to follow the evidence wherever it went, even if it carried him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

Show me what’s real. Help me see clearly.

Scout shifted closer, the dog’s warmth a comforting presence. Angus finished his coffee and stood, the decision settling fully into place. He knew what he needed to do today. Knew the questions that demanded answers. It was time to stop theorizing and start proving.

Inside, he set his mug in the sink and opened his laptop at the kitchen table. The house was quiet. The tv was off, and the phone on silent.

What Angus needed now was proof.

Not proof that Logan was alive. Not proof of what he had been doing or who he’d become. Just proof that the death certificate in the state archives was exactly what it appeared to be: a deliberate fabrication designed to make a living person officially dead.

And the key to that proof was a name without a face. A signature without credentials. A registrar who’d filed Logan Reid’s death certificate and then vanished into bureaucratic fog.

J. Brennan.