Page 41 of Logan’s Way

Which meant they were still watching. Still measuring. Still making decisions about what Angus could access and what needed to remain restricted based on his choices.

Stopping didn’t make the danger disappear. It just changed how the danger manifested.

Angus pulled out his notebook and wrote:

Didn’t call Moss. Can’t justify the risk.

Administrative holds released. Pressure easing.

They noticed I stopped. Responded by lifting restrictions.

Then, after a contemplative pause:

I’m being obedient to something I can’t name. Don’t know if it’s wisdom or cowardice.

He looked at what he’d written. At the admission that felt like confession and accusation simultaneously.

His entire career had been built on the belief that right action produced clear results—that following procedure led to justice, that truth revealed through proper channels served the greater good.

But nothing about this situation fit that framework. The law had failed first. Someone had succeeded where it couldn’t. Lives had been saved through means that violated procedure. And Angus’s pursuit of truth now threatened to undo the very work that had made those outcomes possible.

Good outcomes. Results that saved lives. People freed from trafficking, from abuse, from predators the system couldn’t reach in time.

Did that make the method right? Did successful results justify abandoning the boundaries that separated justice from power? Did Logan’s way—if it was Logan—become righteous because it worked?

Angus felt the theological pressure building—the question with no easy answer. The conflict between what produced good outcomes and what aligned with divine authority.

Because the verse kept pressing: “There is a way that seems right to a man …”

Logan’s way seemed right. It saved lives. Freed victims. Removed threats.

But righteousness wasn’t determined by outcomes. It wasn’t measured by results. It required something more foundational than successful intervention.

It required submission to authority beyond human judgment. Required trusting that God’s way—even when it felt slow, inadequate, inefficient—was still the way. Not because it worked better. But because it was right.

Angus struggled to reconcile that with the reality of lives saved. He couldn’t look at Elena Martinez—freed because someone had intervened—and claim that intervention was wrong simply because it had bypassed proper channels.

He couldn’t condemn what had preserved life.

He couldn’t sanctify what had replaced God’s justice with human judgment.

Both truths existed simultaneously, and Angus couldn’t resolve the tension between them.

He closed the notebook and looked at Scout, still waiting patiently with the tennis ball. “Alright, boy. Later is now.”

They played fetch in the hallway until Scout was finally satisfied, running through his commands for good measure before the collie flopped down with a contented groan, ball tucked between his paws. His breathing filled the kitchen now—steady, uncomplicated, unbothered by theological questions that had no clear answers. The dog offered unwavering faithfulness without needing justification for loyalty or explanation for love.

Angus envied that simplicity—the ability to just be, without wrestling with whether being was sufficient or required some higher understanding to validate it.

He thought about calling Murphy. About sharing the weight he had been carrying. About asking her perspective on questions too large for one person to hold.

But that would mean implicating her in knowledge she hadn’t chosen. Burdening her with the same moral conflict splitting him open. Making his struggle her struggle.

So he sat alone, with his notebook, with Scout, and the understanding that some questions couldn’t be shared because sharing them meant spreading the damage.

And that uncertainty—not knowing whether he was following wisdom or just surrendering to fear—pressed harder than any external pressure had.

Because Angus had always believed obedience brought peace. That following God’s way created clarity, confidence, the settled assurance that you were walking correctly.