Page 66 of Logan’s Way

But he couldn’t find words that would make the morning anything other than what it was—proof that finding answers didn’t always lead to resolution, that reunion could happen without reconciliation, that some separations were chosen rather than imposed.

He set the phone back down without responding.

The house settled around him, quiet except for Scout chewing on a bone and the occasional creak of the old structure adjusting to temperature shifts. Angus moved to the living room window and looked out at the street where life continued without pause—neighbors retrieving mail, a delivery truck making its rounds, kids bundled against cold weather heading toward whatever occupied their Saturday afternoons.

Logan was out there somewhere beyond this ordinary neighborhood, doing work that saved lives while costing his soul. Derek Walsh was in another state, relocated by methods Angus couldn’t document and shouldn’t endorse. Lena Torres was safe because someone had intervened where the system couldn’t reach.

The intervention had worked. That was the part Angus kept circling back to. Not theory or speculation but a documented outcome. Lena Torres was protected. Derek Walsh was gone. The gap the system couldn’t fill had been filled anyway.

Logan’s way worked.

That acknowledgment came with the sting of betrayal—not of Logan, but of everything Angus had built his career on. The belief that law enforcement, despite its failures and limitations, was the right way to pursue justice. That working within systems, however slow and imperfect, was better than operating outside them. That outcomes didn’t justify methods when the methods required abandoning collective authority for individual certainty.

He still believed those things. But standing in his living room recognizing that Logan’s illegal intervention had accomplished what Angus’s legal approach couldn’t, the belief felt less like conviction and more like a stubborn refusal to admit uncomfortable truth.

His phone showed a missed call notification—Carol Henderson's office number, a voicemail left Friday afternoon that he hadn't noticed until now.

He played the message.

“Sheriff Reid, this is Carol Henderson from Human Resources.” The voice was professional, measured, carrying a tone that preceded unwelcome news. “I’m calling to inform you that your administrative review has been expedited. We need you at the county office Monday morning at eleven for a formal hearing regarding your suspension and potential termination.”

Termination. The word landed without surprise. He’d known this was coming, had felt the institutional machinery turning toward this conclusion since the day Miguel first called about Derek Walsh’s escalation.

“You’re entitled to legal representation if you choose to retain counsel,” the message continued. After a small pause her voice slightly softened before she added, “Sheriff Reid, I’m not supposed to say this, but … the evidence they’re presenting is substantial. The unauthorized access to restricted files during your leave. The documented contact with subjects involved in active investigations. The pattern of decisions that prioritized individual judgment over departmental policy. You should prepare yourself for the likelihood that reinstatement won’t be offered. The hearing will determine whether separation is with or without cause. That distinction matters for your record and any future law enforcement employment.” She paused. “I wanted you to know what you’re walking into.”

The call ended, and Angus set the phone back on the counter, this new information joining everything else that wouldn’t resolve itself into clarity. Monday morning he would sit in a hearing and account for choices that had seemed necessary at the time but looked like insubordination when documented in official reports.

They weren’t wrong about the pattern. He had accessed restricted files. Had made contact with subjects during active investigations. Had prioritized individual judgment over departmental policy. The documentation would show exactly what Carol said it would show—a sheriff who’d operated outside his authority because he’d believed the circumstances required it.

The same justification Logan used. The same logic Pete Hutchinson had followed. The same pattern of deciding that being right mattered more than being lawful.

Except Angus hadn’t crossed the final line. Hadn’t taken action that violated the law rather than just policy. Hadn’t intervened through methods that required hiding from systems meant to provide accountability.

That distinction felt thinner than it should have.

Scout left his place by the door and pressed against Angus’s leg, the dog’s instincts recognizing distress Angus hadn’t fully acknowledged. He reached down and rested his hand on Scout’s head, accepting comfort that required no explanation.

The afternoon light was already fading toward early winter evening. Hours had passed without his noticing, time moving forward while he stood still, trying to make sense of things that wouldn’t yield to analysis.

He walked to his bedroom and retrieved his Bible from the nightstand—the same one that had been there since he first moved into the house, before Logan’s investigation began, before the moral certainty he’d operated with had been complicated by evidence that outcomes didn’t always align with righteousness.

He opened to Proverbs, to the passage that had been pressing against his thoughts for weeks: “There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death.”

Both paths had seemed right. Following procedure while Lena Torres remained vulnerable. Taking action that would have violated everything he believed about how justice should function. Both ways leading toward death—one physical, one spiritual. Both requiring sacrifices he hadn’t been willing to make.

Logan had made different choices. He’d walked the way that seemed right to him for eighteen years, saving lives while losing his soul. He’d chosen outcomes over obedience because obedience felt like abandoning people who needed help.

And Angus was standing in his bedroom holding Scripture that condemned that choice while knowing it had worked.

He knelt beside his bed the way he did countless times before, the posture of prayer familiar even when the words wouldn’t come. For several minutes he remained there in silence, waiting for clarity that didn’t arrive, for peace that stayed just out of reach, for some assurance that choosing the harder path had been right even when it meant watching people fall through gaps the system couldn’t fill.

God remained silent. Not absent—Angus could feel His presence the way he’d felt it since childhood, the awareness that someone beyond himself was listening. But silent. Offering no comfort, no answers, no assurance that refusing to follow Logan had been righteous rather than just stubborn.

I know what I chose,” Angus said finally, the words quiet in the empty room. “I just don't know how to carry it. How to watch him walk away and call that faithfulness. How to hold to law when law couldn't protect the people who needed it. I made my choice. I just need to know it was Yours too.”

The silence continued. No voice. No sudden revelation. Just a presence that listened without providing solutions.

“I won’t follow him,” Angus said, the statement arriving with certainty that surprised him. “Even if his way works. Even if people suffer because I choose differently. I won’t trade obedience for outcome.”