Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The call came Monday morning while Angus was feeding Scout.
His cell phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize—Maine area code, but not local. Angus set down the dog food and answered.
“Sheriff Reid.”
“Sheriff Reid, this is Catherine Marsh calling from the State Oversight Commission. Do you have a moment?”
Angus stilled. The State Oversight Commission handled internal reviews, ethics complaints, and administrative concerns across Maine’s law enforcement agencies. They didn’t call sheriffs to chat about the weather.
“Of course. What can I do for you?”
“This is just a courtesy call, nothing formal.” Marsh’s voice was professional, almost friendly.
“We received a routine flag from the vital records division regarding some recent access patterns. Your name came up, and I wanted to reach out personally before anything became…unnecessarily complicated.”
Scout finished eating and drank from his water bowl. Outside, morning traffic moved past the house. Everything seemed normal. Except it wasn’t.
“I’m not sure I follow,” Angus said carefully.
“Over the past week, you made several inquiries into vital records systems—state archives, county employment databases, registrar licensing. All perfectly legal access, of course. But the pattern triggered an automated review, and when the system flagged it for potential conflict of interest, I thought it best to reach out directly.”
“Conflict of interest.”
“You’re on bereavement leave following your mother’s passing, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And these record searches appear to be related to a death certificate from several years ago. A family member, if I’m reading the initial report correctly.”
Angus said nothing, letting her fill the silence.
“The concern,” Marsh continued carefully, “is that using your law enforcement credentials to access vital records for a personal matter could create liability issues. Not just for you, but for your department. If there were ever questions about proper authorization or appropriate use of restricted databases…”
“I haven’t accessed anything restricted.”
“No, you haven’t. That’s what makes this a courtesy call instead of a formal inquiry.
” Her tone remained pleasant, though something beneath it had edges.
“We just wanted to make sure you were aware that these searches have been logged and reviewed. And to remind you that any investigation involving family members should be conducted through proper channels with appropriate oversight.”
“Proper channels being?”
“Filing a formal request with the county where the records originated. Working with the ME’s office. Going through the state’s family inquiry protocols.” A pause. “Not running searches through law enforcement databases while on leave.”
Angus watched Scout settle on his bed in the corner, his eyes tracking Angus’s movement. Outside, a neighbor’s car started up, pulled out of the driveway, and drove away. Monday morning continued its ordinary rhythm.
“So I’m being advised to stop.”
“You’re being advised,” Marsh said carefully, “that continuing without formal authorization could compromise the integrity of these systems. And that could raise questions about whether you’re acting in an official capacity or a personal one.
We want to protect you from any suggestion of impropriety. ”
The word protect hung in the air like smoke.
“I understand,” Angus said.
“Good. I’m glad we could clarify this before it became an issue.” Marsh’s voice warmed slightly, professional courtesy restored. “I know losing a parent is difficult. If you need resources—counseling, extended leave, whatever might help—your department has options.”
“I appreciate that.”
“And if you do need to pursue any questions about family records, the proper channels are there for exactly this reason. We just can’t have sheriffs running informal investigations through official systems. I’m sure you understand the liability concerns.”
“I do.”
“Excellent. Then I’ll make a note that we spoke and that you’re aware of the protocols going forward.” A brief pause. “Take care of yourself, Sheriff Reid. Grief is hard enough without adding complications.”
The call ended. Angus set his phone on the counter and stood in his kitchen, listening to the quiet. Scout watched him from the doorway, head tilted, waiting for a cue that something was about to happen. The coffee pot finished brewing, its soft gurgle the only sound.
They had been watching. Tracking his searches. Monitoring his access to databases that were technically public but had left digital footprints that someone was paying attention to.
And they’d called him. Personally. Before anything became “unnecessarily complicated.”
Which meant someone wanted him to stop before he found something they couldn’t dismiss as grief-driven curiosity.
Angus poured coffee and walked to the window.
Weyport spread out before him—the harbor, the fishing boats, the streets he’d protected for years.
His town. His responsibility. The place where people trusted him to uphold the law and maintain order, and to follow the rules that kept society functioning.
He’d built his entire career on believing the system worked. On believing that justice required patience and procedure. That truth revealed itself when you followed the evidence correctly and respected the boundaries that protected everyone’s rights.
But the system had lied to him. It had manufactured a death certificate. Had declared his brother officially deceased without ever proving he’d actually died. And when Angus started asking why, it noticed—and called to suggest he stop.
Not because he was wrong. Because he was close to something someone didn’t want examined.
Angus finished his coffee and rinsed the mug. Then he walked to the guest bedroom where his investigation wall had grown over the past week. Photos, documents, notes, timelines. Everything he’d gathered about Logan’s disappearance and the fabricated death that had followed.
On the desk sat his personal laptop—not department-issued, not connected to any official network.
And in the filing cabinet he’d brought from storage sat decades of personal records his mother had kept.
Birth certificates. Medical files. School records.
The documentation of two boys who’d grown up far from home, raised by a single mother who’d protected them the best she could.
Angus opened his desk drawer and pulled out Logan’s file. The original missing person report was there, filed when Logan was sixteen. The one that had stayed open for years because there was never a body, never closure, never an official end.
He looked at the death certificate copy on his desk. The one that had appeared years after Logan was reported missing, signed by a registrar who didn’t exist, filed through a system that had accepted it without question.
Someone had closed Logan’s case. Had made sure Angus would stop searching. Had manufactured an ending that looked official enough to satisfy anyone who didn’t look too closely.
And now he’d received a call making sure he understood what continuing to look closely might cost him.
Angus pulled out his investigation notebook. He flipped to a fresh page and recorded the date.
Below it:
State Oversight called. My records searches have been flagged. Advised to stop without formal authorization.
Translation: They know I’m looking. They want me to stop.
He paused, pen hovering over paper. Then added another thought:
They don’t warn people who are looking in the wrong places.
The implications sank in, cold and undeniable. Continuing meant risking his badge—potentially compromising his department—and certainly crossing lines he’d spent two decades respecting and enforcing.
Stopping meant accepting that he’d been lied to for years. Meant letting whoever had manufactured Logan’s death remain hidden. Meant choosing his career over his brother.
Scout padded in and dropped his rope toy at Angus's feet, undeterred by the fact that Angus had ignored the last three attempts. Angus reached down and gave it a toss down the hallway. It was the least he could do.
What would you do? he thought. Not to Scout. Not to anyone specific. Just the question hanging in the quiet of his house.
What’s the right choice when both options compromise something you believe in?
The answer came quietly, certainty rather than epiphany: He couldn’t unknow what he’d learned. Couldn’t pretend the fabrication didn’t exist. Couldn’t go back to believing the official story now that he’d proven it was built on lies.
The system had lied. And when he’d started uncovering that lie, the system had called to suggest he stop.
Which meant the truth was dangerous enough to protect.
Angus looked at the investigation wall—Logan’s photo, the documents that didn’t quite add up, the registrar who’d never existed, and the careful construction of official fiction.
Then he sat down and opened his laptop—his personal laptop, paid for with his own money, connected through his home internet, leaving no trail through official networks.
He pulled up the photograph of Logan’s death certificate he’d scanned weeks ago. The document that had started everything.
And he saved a copy to an external drive. Then another copy to a secure cloud storage account he’d set up years ago for personal files. Then he printed a physical copy and filed it in his own records, separate from anything connected to the department.
If someone wanted this investigation to stop, they’d need to do more than flag his database searches. They’d need to prove he’d done something wrong. And copying public documents to his personal files wasn’t illegal—just suspicious, if anyone noticed.
Angus had spent two decades learning how to build cases that would hold up in court. He knew how to document evidence. How to maintain chain of custody. How to separate personal knowledge from professional investigation.
And he knew how to recognize when someone was trying to bury the truth under bureaucratic warnings and polite suggestions to let things go.
Then he did something he’d never done in twenty years of law enforcement.
He went to his filing cabinet and pulled out Logan’s original case file—the one from the sheriff’s office, the official record of his brother’s disappearance.
It should have stayed in evidence storage as part of the departmental archive.
Moving it without authorization was technically theft of official documents.
But if someone was watching his database searches, they might also be watching what files he accessed at the station. And if this file disappeared from evidence storage during an audit, questions would be asked that Angus wasn’t ready to answer.
He placed the file on his desk next to everything else.
Outside, Weyport kept its ordinary Monday morning rhythm. Inside, Angus sat in his guest bedroom, coming to terms with the line he’d crossed in secret.
He’d taken an official file without authorization. Had moved evidence out of proper channels. Had made copies of documents that were technically still part of an ongoing personal inquiry, using systems he had been advised not to access.
Not because he was grief-stricken and irrational, but because he was a sheriff who’d uncovered evidence of systematic fraud, and when he’d tried to investigate properly, the system had warned him to stop.
Which meant the system itself was compromised.
And if the system wouldn’t protect the truth, then Angus would have to protect it himself.
He closed the file and looked at his notes. At the timeline of Logan’s disappearance. At the connections between traffickers who’d vanished and victims who had been freed and records that had been carefully altered to make a person officially dead.
Someone had gone to enormous trouble to erase Logan Reid, creating an institutional conspiracy that spanned multiple agencies and involved people with enough authority to manipulate vital records without triggering safeguards.
They’d done it carefully. Professionally. With just enough legitimacy to satisfy anyone who didn’t look too closely.
But Angus had looked closely. Had found the cracks. Had proven the fabrication.
And they’d noticed.
The warning call wasn’t concern for his grief or worry about departmental liability. It was a message: Stop asking questions. Accept what you’ve been told. Let the lie stand.
But the lie had already fallen. Angus couldn’t rebuild it, even if he wanted to.
So he’d continue. Carefully. Quietly. Using resources they couldn’t monitor and documentation they couldn’t seize.
Following the evidence not as Sheriff Reid, but as Angus Reid, brother of a missing person whose death had been manufactured by people with enough power to make the system protect their fiction.
He looked at Logan’s photo one more time. Then wrote a final note in his journal:
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.