Page 28 of Logan’s Way

The system was responding to his searches. To patterns in his database access. To queries that suggested he was following trails someone didn’t want followed.

And the system had responded by closing doors. Quietly. Efficiently. Through administrative processes that involved no human decision, no oversight review, and no real opportunity to appeal without triggering questions about why routine alignment required explanation.

Angus closed the laptop and sat in his kitchen with Scout’s steady breathing the only sound.

Ordinary morning. Ordinary town. Ordinary life continuing while Sheriff Angus Reid sat at his kitchen table and understood that he was not ordinary. He’d been classified.

Not as grieving. Not as curious. Not as a brother searching for truth about his missing sibling.

As a risk.

Someone had made that classification. Had implemented it through systems that generated no alerts, raised no red flags, offered no obvious sign that anything had changed. Just quiet restrictions designed to stop his investigation without explanation.

Except they wouldn’t stop him. They would slow him. Would force him to work differently, more carefully, without the tools he’d relied on for two decades. But the truth didn’t change simply because access to official databases was restricted.

Logan’s death certificate was still fabricated. J. Brennan still didn’t exist. Sandra Hammond had still confirmed the pattern before retracting it. The evidence remained, locked in Angus’s files, documented in his notes, real regardless of whether official systems permitted further searches.

Angus added one final line to his journal entry:

They’re not warning me. They’re containing me.

The distinction mattered. Warnings suggested he could still choose differently, still step back, still accept what he had been told and move on. Containment suggested that choice was no longer available. That he’d crossed into territory where the system needed to manage his access, limit his reach, and ensure he couldn’t continue gathering evidence through official channels.

Which meant he’d found something worth containing. Something dangerous enough that quiet restrictions were necessary. Something that required institutional response beyond simple warnings and administrative courtesy.

They don’t contain people who are wrong.

They contain people who are close.

Scout stood and stretched, ready for his morning walk, completely unbothered by restricted databases or administrative notices. His routine remained unchanged—breakfast, walk, the simple rhythms of canine life that required no access credentials, authorizations.

Angus looked at his closed laptop.

He wouldn’t call IT. Wouldn’t ask about alignment, protocols, or when his access might be restored. Wouldn’t start a conversation that forced him to explain why routine administrative processes concerned him.

He would work differently now. With what he already had. With resources that required no credentials. With evidence hidden in locked files, coded notes, and the places where truth existed independent of any system.

The investigation hadn’t stopped. It had just moved further underground.

Where the only restriction was Angus’s willingness to continue despite everything the system was doing to make him stop.

And he would continue. Carefully. Quietly. Alone.

Because they’d classified him as a risk.

Which meant he was finally asking the right questions.

Chapter Ten

Most mornings began with coffee and routine, but after realizing he'd been classified as a risk, the rest of the morning felt anything but.

Angus stood on his front porch while Scout investigated the frost-covered yard. The harbor was barely visible through morning mist, but the sounds were familiar—boats preparing for the day, gulls calling, the distant rumble of trucks on the main road. A morning that suggested life would continue its normal patterns, regardless of database restrictions or administrative alignment notices.

He finished his coffee and called Scout back inside. The mail truck appeared at the end of the street, making its usual rounds. Angus watched it approach, stop at his neighbor’s box, then continue past his own house without slowing.

Not unusual. Mail didn’t come every day. Packages were delayed. Winter weather made service inconsistent.

But Angus had been expecting something—a document request he’d filed weeks ago, before the investigation had gone underground, when he was still using official channels. A routine request through state archives for historical employment records. Public information. Nothing sensitive. Just confirmation of county staff rosters from the relevant period.