Page 54 of Logan’s Way

Because when the system failed people, someone would always decide the failure justified operating outside it. Would always measure outcomes against principles and decide outcomes mattered more. Would always look at legal limitations and see obstacles rather than protections.

And Angus was starting to understand why.

Not because he’d stopped believing in legal boundaries. Not because he’d concluded Logan’s way was righteous. But because standing at the crossroads of legality and real protection, those two things didn’t line up the way he’d always assumed they would.

The system was forcing his hand—not toward lawlessness, not yet—but toward a choice: between upholding the restraint he had tried to honor as obedience and facing the fact that restraint no longer protected anyone.

Not Lena Torres, who’d come to him asking for help the system couldn’t provide.

Not Rachel Carver, who’d fallen through gaps while Angus was wrestling with questions too large to hold.

Not the next person who would need protection existing somewhere between legal procedure and Logan’s interventions.

And maybe not Angus himself, who was starting to recognize that staying in the middle—neither fully within the system nor willing to operate outside it—meant watching people suffer while feeling righteous about following rules that didn’t prevent the suffering.

He couldn’t stay in the middle much longer. Restraint was no longer protecting others. Or himself. And the next decision—whatever it was, whenever it came—would cost him something real.

The system was forcing his hand.

And Angus was running out of ways to resist without acknowledging that resistance itself was a choice, one with consequences he could no longer justify.

Chapter Twenty

The voicemail had been left at three in the morning, but Angus didn’t hear it until six, waking from sleep that hadn’t been restful so much as necessary.

Lena’s voice was quiet, controlled—the way people sounded when they were trying very hard not to fall apart. “Sheriff Reid, it’s Lena Torres. I know it’s late. I’m sorry. Derek was outside my apartment again tonight—I called patrol like you said, they came and documented it, said he was technically compliant with the order. But after they left he stayed another hour. Just standing there in the cold, looking up at my window. I think—” A pause, the sound of breathing that might have been tears held back. “I think he’s going to do something soon. I can feel it. The way he looks at me now, it’s different. I don’t know how to explain it. Miguel said you’re not allowed to help anymore, that I should work with him instead, but Miguel follows the rules, and the rules aren’t keeping me safe. I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry for calling so late.”

The message ended. Angus was already dressed, already moving toward the door before he’d consciously decided to leave the house. Scout was already on his feet, dancing between Angus and the back door with the urgent energy of a dog who'd been asleep for hours. Angus opened the door and let him out into the yard, filled his water bowl, scooped his food, and set both bowls down on the back porch. Scout was already eating with focused attention as Angus closed the door behind him.

Angus was in his truck, driving toward town, before he allowed himself to think about what he was doing—going where he’d been told not to go, stepping into a case he had been ordered to leave alone, acting without official authority because that authority had become a barrier rather than a tool.

The diner wouldn’t open for another hour, but Angus drove past it anyway, checking for Derek’s truck. Finding nothing, he continued to Lena’s apartment building—a modest two-story structure three blocks off Main Street where working people lived in units that weren’t quite affordable anymore. Derek’s truck wasn’t there either, but the parking spot across the street showed evidence of recent occupancy—cigarette butts scattered on the pavement, all the same brand, all relatively fresh.

Derek had been there. For hours, probably. Watching Lena’s window. Waiting for her to look out and see him. Establishing that nowhere was safe, that the restraining order was nothing but paper, and his presence was inevitability.

Angus’s phone rang. Miguel, voice tight with something between frustration and fear: “Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

“Where’s Derek now?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem. Lena called me twenty minutes ago—said she couldn’t reach you. She’s at her mom’s house in Camden, took the morning off work because she’s afraid to be in public. Derek hasn’t shown up there yet, but—” Miguel paused, the weight in his tone palpable. “Angus, command is watching this case now. Carol Henderson specifically. She’s made it clear that any informal involvement from you will result in official action against both of us. I can’t coordinate with you anymore. Can’t share information, can’t accept advice. You need to step back.”

“And let Lena handle this alone?”

“She’s not alone. She has patrol response, victim advocacy, a restraining order being actively monitored. The system is working.”

“The system is documenting while she lives in terror. That’s not the same as working.”

Miguel’s exhale was audible, heavy with the weight of agreement he couldn’t officially voice. “I know. But I can’t fix that by violating procedure. Neither can you. We have to trust that⁠—”

“Trust what? That Derek will eventually cross a line and we can charge him? That he’ll escalate into something legally actionable before he hurts her?” Angus pulled over, unable to drive and argue simultaneously. “You know how this ends, Miguel. You’ve seen the pattern. Men like Derek don’t stop because paperwork piles up. They stop when they get what they came for.”

“So what’s the alternative? Operate outside the law? Become vigilantes because the system moves too slowly?” Miguel’s voice carried a frustration that went beyond this single case. “That’s not justice. That’s just power wielded by whoever decides they know better than everyone else.”

The words landed with uncomfortable precision. That was exactly what Logan had done—decided he knew better, exercised power outside legal boundaries, accomplished outcomes the system couldn’t accomplish because the system required things like warrants and evidence and proof.

And people like Elena Martinez were alive because of it.

Lena Torres might not be, because Angus was still trying to believe the system worked, even as it proved daily that working correctly and working effectively weren’t the same.