Page 46 of Logan’s Way

Not Logan. Not the system that had suppressed the truth. Not his grief or his need for reunion or his conviction that families belonged together. But something higher, something that required a submission Angus hadn’t been prepared to give.

The house was quiet except for wind moving past the windows and the occasional creak of old timber. Scout settled near the table with a toy, happily gnawing away.

Angus had spent his entire career believing that truth was inherently good, that revealing lies served justice, that exposure brought healing, and that concealment caused harm. But now he understood that truth could cost lives, that revelation could end work that was keeping people safe, that sometimes—perhaps—concealment protected rather than corrupted.

And that understanding fractured everything he’d built his faith around.

Because if truth wasn’t always good … if righteousness required accepting lies for greater purposes … if obedience meant letting his brother remain hidden when finding him was finally possible … then what did faithfulness actually look like?

For the first time since the investigation began—since he’d found the ancestry test result that said “deceased,” since Murphy had discovered autopsy anomalies, since he’d proven the death certificate was fabricated—Angus tried to pray.

Not eloquently, not with the structured language he’d learned in church or the practiced phrases that had carried him through twenty years of law enforcement. Just honestly, desperately, with the kind of raw need that came from being completely lost.

“What do You want me to do with this?”

The words felt inadequate, insufficient, but they were all he had.

God didn’t answer—not with clarity, not with direction, not with the kind of peace Angus had been taught to expect when you brought your burdens to the Lord and trusted Him to provide wisdom. There was only silence, patient and waiting, as if the answer existed but Angus wasn’t ready to hear it yet. Or as if the question itself revealed that Angus was still thinking incorrectly, still believing his role was to solve problems rather than to submit to authority beyond his understanding.

Angus envied Scout, who lived free of questions about obedience and truth, about which path served God when both paths seemed to cause harm.

Angus sat with his prayer unanswered, and his brother alive but unreachable, and the terrible understanding settling into his bones: Obedience was going to cost him.

It would cost him his need for reunion, for closure, for the kind of ending where separated families came back together and eighteen years of mourning resolved into joy. Would cost him his role as solver, as the sheriff who could fix things if he just worked hard enough, followed evidence carefully enough, built cases thoroughly enough. Would cost him his belief that truth always healed, that revelation served the good, that exposure brought light into darkness and made things right.

Faith might require letting Logan remain hidden, might require accepting that his brother was alive but choosing distance, might require living with knowledge that couldn’t be acted upon because acting would destroy what Logan was protecting.

Peace might require surrender—not resolution, not reunion, just release. Letting go of the need to fix what was broken, to heal what hurt, to solve what remained unsolvable.

The cost felt like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Not dramatic, not explosive, just present and constant—the ache of understanding that faithfulness might look nothing like what he’d expected.

Outside, Weyport continued its evening rhythms. Inside, Angus sat with Scout, his unanswered prayer, and the letter that had changed everything by confirming what he suspected.

The knowledge was no longer external, wasn’t something to be pursued or documented or proven. It had moved inside, had become part of him, settling into places where truth lived whether you wanted it or not.

Logan was alive. And choosing to stay hidden. The question of what Angus did with that knowledge hadn't gotten any simpler.

The next step wouldn’t be discovery. He’d done that, had found what he had been searching for, even though finding it had come through accident rather than investigation.

The next step would be sacrifice.

Letting go of what he’d wanted for eighteen years. Accepting that some truths didn’t bring healing. Acknowledging that reunion might serve his needs while destroying others’ safety. Choosing to obey something larger than his grief, his longing, and his conviction that families belonged together.

Even when obedience felt like death.

Chapter Seventeen

The morning seemed almost normal.

Angus made coffee while Scout waited patiently for breakfast, the canine’s internal clock more reliable than any alarm. Outside, winter light filtered through clouds that promised snow but hadn’t yet delivered. The harbor was barely visible through morning mist, boats settling into their usual rhythms, the town waking to another ordinary day.

He’d spent days sitting with his decision that continuing with his investigation and seeking the truth wasn’t worth it. He’d tried praying about it, and received only silence, which might have been God’s patience or his own inability to hear. The letter from the Survivor Advocacy Network sat in a locked drawer now, proof that Logan was alive and choosing invisibility, evidence that couldn’t be acted upon without destroying what it confirmed.

Angus had chosen restraint. He had believed—and was still trying to believe—that obedience meant accepting limits on his need to know, his conviction that families belonged together, and his role as the one who solved problems.

The phone rang while he was pouring his second cup of coffee. Miguel’s name appeared on the screen.

“Morning,” Angus answered.