Page 20 of Logan’s Way

The system doesn’t erase people unless it’s afraid of what they connect to.

And beneath that, underlined twice:

Close enough to follow.

Scout barked at something beyond the window—a delivery truck, maybe, or a neighbor passing by. Ordinary Weyport sounds on an ordinary Monday morning.

Except nothing was ordinary anymore.

Angus had crossed the line between sheriff and civilian. Between official investigation and personal crusade. Between following the rules and following the truth when the rules themselves had been corrupted.

He didn’t know where this path would lead. Didn’t know if he’d still have his badge when it ended. Didn’t know if he’d find Logan alive or just prove that his brother’s death was a lie.

But he knew he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when someone had cared enough to call and warn him away.

Because people only built walls around truths worth hiding.

And whatever Logan had been doing, whatever he’d become, it was dangerous enough that powerful people had spent years making sure no one would look for him.

Angus intended to find out why.

Even if it cost him everything.

Chapter Seven

As darkness settled, Angus sat at his kitchen table with Scout at his feet and a name written on a notepad: Sandra Hammond.

He’d found her through cross-referencing the Las Vegas victim services records he’d reviewed days earlier. Elena Martinez’s case file had listed three caseworkers during her intake and placement. Two were still active in the Nevada system. The third—Sandra Hammond—had retired six years ago and relocated to Arizona.

Retired meant less institutional pressure. Relocated meant distance from whatever had happened in Las Vegas. And caseworkers kept notes, memories, and the kind of details that official reports sanitized or omitted entirely.

Angus had found a phone number through public records—a landline in Scottsdale. He’d been staring at it for twenty minutes, considering his approach, his phrasing, and how to ask questions without revealing why he was asking.

Winter darkness had settled over Weyport. Inside, the house was warm and quiet, except for Scout’s steady breathing. An evening like any other. Except Angus was about to call a woman he’d never met and ask about a case from nearly two decades ago.

He picked up his phone and dialed.

Three rings, then: “Hello?”

“Ms. Hammond? My name is Angus Reid. I’m a sheriff in Maine, and I’m trying to verify some information about a case from your time with Las Vegas Victim Services. Do you have a moment?”

A pause. “Which case?”

“Elena Martinez. She was placed through your office—I’m showing your name on the intake paperwork from that period.”

“That was a long time ago.” Hammond’s voice was cautious but not unfriendly. “What kind of verification do you need?”

“Just basic confirmation. I’m reviewing some old files, trying to make sure our records align with what actually happened. Nothing formal, just due diligence.”

Another pause, then: “What specifically are you looking for?”

Angus kept his tone neutral, professional. “The case notes mention that Ms. Martinez was uncooperative with the investigation. That she claimed someone helped her but refused to provide details. I’m trying to understand whether that was documented accurately.”

“It was.” Hammond’s answer came more easily now, like she’d decided this really was just paperwork. “Elena wouldn’t talk about how she got away from Volk’s network. She had been through trauma, which was expected, but this was different. She wasn’t protecting herself—she was protecting someone else.”

“The someone who helped her.”

“That’s what I believed. She mentioned him once, early on, before she understood we’d want to follow up. She said, ‘he told me I didn’t have to be afraid anymore.’ But after that, nothing. Every time I asked, she’d shut down.”