Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The drive north took Angus through winter country—gray highways edged with dirty snow, skeletal trees, and fields locked under ice.
Three hours of salt-stained pavement and towns that looked like they had been holding their breath since November.
Weyport disappeared in his rearview mirror before seven a.m., and with it the weight of being Sheriff Reid.
Out here, he was just another man in a truck with questions nobody wanted to answer.
The radio stayed off. The phone stayed in his pocket.
Miguel had sent a text around six-thirty:
Everything good here. Take your time.
Angus had read it, typed a brief reply, then silenced the device. His deputy didn’t need to know where he was going or why. Not yet. Maybe not ever, depending on what he found in Thornfield County.
Scout had looked at him with those knowing eyes when Angus dropped him at Murphy’s place before dawn.
The hound understood something was different about this trip—no patrol vest, no radio chatter, no routine.
Murphy had taken the leash without asking questions, just squeezed Angus’s arm and said, “Be careful.”
She knew. Not everything, but enough.
The badge was in the glove compartment. His gun remained secured in the gun safe at home.
Angus wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and a winter jacket that had seen better days.
He looked like what he was: someone with time on his hands and a reason to drive three hours through January cold to ask questions about paperwork.
He’d spent the last hour of the drive rehearsing his approach. Keep it neutral. Keep it procedural. Don’t mention Logan by name. Don’t mention the funeral. Don’t mention anything that sounds like desperation or grief or eighteen years of unanswered questions.
Lead with the document. Ask about process. Let them think he’s just another sheriff tying up loose ends on an old case.
The moment he said “my brother,” everything would change.
People would get sympathetic or defensive or both.
They’d stop seeing a professional inquiry and start seeing a personal crusade.
And if there was something wrong with that death certificate—if someone had gone to the trouble of making Logan Reid officially deceased—then Angus needed to know who and why before they knew he was asking.
So he would be calm. Methodical. Just a law enforcement officer with some questions about filing procedures and registrar protocols. Nothing threatening. Nothing that would make anyone nervous.
The GPS announced his exit in half a mile.
Angus took the turnoff and followed county roads into Thornfield proper—if you could call it that.
The town was barely more than a main street with a few businesses clustered around a single traffic light that seemed optional.
Population maybe two thousand on a good day.
The kind of place where everyone knew everyone and strangers got noticed.
The county clerk’s office sat in a squat brick building that also housed the tax assessor and planning department.
Budget cuts made visible through consolidation.
A single parking lot, half empty, sat next to the structure.
It was clearly one of those municipal buildings that existed because the state required it, not because anyone expected it to be busy.
Angus parked at the far end of the lot and sat for a moment, engine ticking as it cooled. Through the windshield he could see the entrance—double doors, worn steps, a directory board that needed updating. Nothing sinister. Nothing ominous. Just a small-town office on a Wednesday morning in January.
He’d done this a thousand times—walked into unfamiliar buildings, asked uncomfortable questions, gathered information people didn’t necessarily want to share.
The only difference was that this time, he wasn’t wearing a badge.
This time, he didn’t have jurisdiction or authority or any official reason to be asking.
This time, it was personal.
Angus got out of the truck and walked across the parking lot.
The cold bit through his jacket, wind coming off the fields with nothing to slow it down.
His boots crunched on ice. His breath fogged in the air.
Everything about this place felt marginal, forgotten, the kind of county that survived on state funding and hoped nobody looked too closely at how it was spent.
The lobby was warmer but not by much. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Linoleum floors showed decades of wear. A reception desk sat unmanned, a handwritten sign directing visitors to various departments via arrows and room numbers.
The whole place smelled like old paper and radiator heat and bureaucracy.
Angus followed the arrow to County Clerk — Room 104.
The office was small, cramped with filing cabinets and computer equipment that belonged in a museum.
A woman in her fifties sat behind the counter, reading glasses perched on her nose, attention focused on some document that apparently required intense concentration.
She looked up when Angus entered, her professional smile automatic.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” Angus kept his voice easy, unthreatening. “I’m Sheriff Reid from Weyport County. I’m off duty right now, but I had some questions about death certificate procedures.”
The woman’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her posture. Not alarm. Not quite wariness. Just…attention.
“What kind of questions?”
“General ones, mostly. I’m trying to understand how the filing process works. Specifically, who witnesses and processes death certificates in Thornfield County.”
“That would be our registrar.” The woman set her document aside, giving Angus her full attention. “Is this about a specific case?”
“Not officially. I’m just trying to verify some information on an old file.
” Angus pulled out a photocopy of Logan’s death certificate—the one without his name visible, just the formatting and signatures.
“I’m curious about the witness line here.
The signature and initials. How does your office typically handle that? ”
The woman took the paper, studied it through her reading glasses. Her lips pressed together slightly. “This is from…when?”
“Several years ago. I’m not sure of the exact date.” Angus watched her face, looking for any sign of recognition, concern, or discomfort. “I’m trying to understand if that’s standard procedure—just initials and a title, no full name.”
“It shouldn’t be.” The woman handed the paper back. “Our current protocol requires full name, title, and seal number. But protocols change. This could be from before the update.”
“Do you keep records of who was working as registrar in previous years?”
Another shift in posture. Subtle but there. “We do, but those records are in archives. It would take some time to pull them.”
“I understand. I’m not in a rush.” Angus kept his tone mild, just making conversation. “How many registrars has Thornfield County had over, say, the past decade?”
The woman’s pause lasted a beat too long. “I’d have to check. Employee records aren’t something I have access to from this desk.”
That was interesting. A county clerk who didn’t have access to information about county employees. Angus let it pass without comment.
“Fair enough. What about filing logs? Do you maintain records of when death certificates are processed and by whom?”
“Yes, but again, that information is archived after a certain period. Anything older than three years gets transferred.”
“Transferred where?”
“State records. It’s all digitized now, but the physical files go to the state archive facility.”
Angus nodded, filing that away. “And before digitization? What happened to older records?”
“Same thing. Transferred.” The woman was being polite, but her answers were getting shorter, more careful. “Is there a specific certificate you’re trying to verify?”
This was the moment. Angus could identify Logan, make this personal, turn the whole conversation into something different. Or he could stay neutral, keep it professional, preserve his ability to ask questions without triggering sympathy or suspicion.
He chose caution.
“Not verify exactly. Just trying to understand the process. I’ve got a case back in Weyport with some questions about documentation, and I wanted to see how other counties handle things.” He paused, then added carefully, “The registrar initial on this copy—J. Brennan—does that name sound familiar?”
The woman’s face went carefully blank. Not confused. Not surprised. Just…closed.
“I’d have to check our employment records.”
“Of course. I appreciate that.” Angus kept his voice even, giving her space. “Is there someone else I should talk to? Someone who might remember the filing procedures from several years back?”
“Our current county clerk might be able to help, but he’s not in today. You could leave your contact information, and he’ll call you when he’s available.”
Standard deflection. Polite but firm. Angus had used the same technique himself when civilians asked questions he didn’t want to answer. It was the bureaucratic equivalent of a door closing slowly but inevitably.
“I appreciate that.” Angus pulled out his notebook and wrote down his name and number. “If you could pass this along, I’d be grateful. It’s not urgent. I’m just trying to be…thorough.”
The woman took the paper with a nod that said the conversation was over. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
Angus thanked her and turned to leave, then paused at the door. “One more thing, if you don’t mind. That certificate I showed you—do you happen to know if the file is still here? Or would it have been transferred with everything else?”
“Transferred,” the woman said without hesitation. Too quickly. Like she expected the question. “Anything that old would be at state archives by now.”
“Right. Of course.” Angus nodded. “Thanks for your time.”
He walked back through the lobby, past the empty reception desk, out into the cold that felt cleaner than the air inside.
His truck sat where he’d left it, ice already forming on the windshield.
The parking lot was still mostly empty. The building looked exactly as it had when he’d arrived—small, underfunded, forgettable.
Except now Angus knew something he hadn’t known before.
That woman had recognized something. Not the certificate itself, maybe. But the questions. The name J. Brennan. The careful inquiries about filing procedures and archived records.
She’d known what he was asking about.
And she’d shut him down with the efficiency of someone following a script.
Angus sat in his truck, not starting the engine yet, just thinking. The cold made the truck's metal contract with a soft creak. His breath fogged the windows. Outside, a few cars passed on the main road, life continuing its ordinary rhythm while Angus tried to piece together what had just happened.
The file had been transferred to state archives. Years ago, apparently.
Except Angus had spent enough time navigating bureaucracy to know when someone was being evasive. The woman hadn’t said she didn’t know where the file was. She’d said it was transferred. Like someone told her what to say when a person came asking.
Which meant someone had come asking before. Or someone had anticipated that someone would.
Either way, it suggested preparation. Deliberation. The kind of careful covering that happened when people wanted to make sure certain questions led nowhere.
Angus pulled out his notebook and wrote three things:
1. J. Brennan — woman recognized the name
2. File “transferred” — check state archives
3. Current county clerk not available — convenient
Then he added one more line and underlined it twice:
4. She was expecting these questions.
The realization crept over him like the cold seeping through the truck’s windows. This wasn’t just an old file with sloppy paperwork. This wasn’t a bureaucratic oversight or a clerical error that time had smoothed over.
Someone had filed that death certificate with deliberate imprecision.
Someone had used vague credentials and minimal documentation.
And someone—maybe the same person, maybe someone else—had made sure that anyone who came looking would hit not just a wall of polite deflection, but transferred records and unavailable supervisors.
Angus had crossed a line this morning, the moment he walked into that office. He’d moved from private doubt to public inquiry. He’d gone from studying documents in his guest bedroom to asking questions that made people uncomfortable.
And now someone, somewhere, knew he was asking.
He started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot, heading back toward the highway. The drive home would take three hours. He’d have plenty of time to think about what he’d learned—and what he hadn’t.
But their paperwork told a different story.
And whoever had filed Logan Reid’s death certificate had made very sure it would be difficult—maybe impossible—to trace anything back to a single person, a single decision, or a single truth.
Which meant someone had something to hide.
Angus just had to figure out who. And why.
And whether his brother was dead—or alive—when someone went to all that trouble to make the world believe he was gone.
The dead didn’t leave forwarding addresses.