Chapter 20
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.
“I need to go,” Angus said.
“Where?”
“To see if I can do anything that doesn’t involve waiting for Derek to commit a chargeable offense.”
“Angus—”
The call ended. Angus sat in his truck with the engine idling, looking at Lena’s apartment building and thinking about paths that seemed right: choosing restraint because it honored principles, or choosing action because it prevented harm, and how both choices could feel obedient while leading somewhere destructive.
There was always a way that seemed right. The question was whether seeming right and being right were the same thing, and whether anyone could tell the difference when outcomes were the only measure that mattered to people who needed help immediately.
His phone rang again. Not Miguel this time—Carol Henderson, the county supervisor who had been monitoring his involvement despite explicit orders to stay away from active cases.
“Sheriff Reid, I need you to come to the administration building. Now.”
“I’m not on duty.”
“That’s precisely why we need to talk. I’ve received complaints from Derek Walsh’s attorney—claims of harassment and intimidation.
He says you’ve been conducting surveillance, making threatening contact, using your position to interfere with his client’s legal rights.
” Carol’s voice remained professionally neutral, but the message was unmistakable.
“I need you to come in so we can address these allegations before they become official.”
“I haven’t made contact with Derek Walsh.”
“That’s not what his attorney is claiming. And whether the claims are accurate or not, they create liability for the department. You’ve been told to step back from this case. Your continued involvement—even observational—undermines our ability to manage the situation legally.”
“The situation needs managing. Right now. Derek is escalating and your system is too slow to stop him before someone gets hurt.”
“My system,” Carol said carefully, “is designed to protect everyone’s rights.
Including Derek Walsh’s. If we act without a proper legal foundation, anything we accomplish gets thrown out, and the person we’re trying to protect ends up more vulnerable than before.
You know this. You’ve built cases that depended on following procedure correctly. ”
“And how many people got hurt while we were following procedure correctly?”
The question hung between them—accusation and admission simultaneously.
Because Angus had built those cases, had followed those procedures, had believed the system worked when people operated correctly within it.
But he’d also seen the gaps. Seen people who fell through while paperwork processed.
Chosen to trust that occasional failure was an acceptable cost for a system that protected everyone’s rights most of the time.
Except now he was watching Lena Torres live in the gap, and trusting the system felt less like faith and more like abandonment.
“Come to the administration building,” Carol repeated. “We’ll discuss your options. But understand that your current path isn’t sustainable. Either you’re back on duty under my authority, or you’re completely separated from active cases. There’s no middle ground.”
She ended the call before Angus could respond.
He sat in his truck, watching morning light filter through clouds that promised more winter weather, thinking about middle ground and how he’d been trying to occupy it for weeks—neither fully investigating Logan nor completely stepping back, neither working officially nor remaining entirely separate, neither embracing restraint as obedience nor acknowledging that restraint had its own costs.
The middle ground was disappearing. Perhaps it had never existed except as temporary space where decisions could be delayed but not avoided.
Someone else would not still be sitting in a truck deciding whether permission mattered.
The thought arrived unbidden, unwelcome, undeniable. Someone else—Logan, presumably, or someone who operated like him—wouldn’t be sitting in a truck, wrestling with whether following orders served the greater good when following orders meant watching Lena Torres live in fear.
Someone else would have made Derek Walsh disappear. Handled. Quietly. Through whatever means it took to make him stop being a threat to her — consequences delivered outside the courtroom, outside procedure, outside the boundaries Angus had spent his career defending.
And Lena would be safe. Not because the system had protected her, but because someone had decided the system’s failure justified operating outside it.
This was the gap. The space where law ended and harm continued. Where procedure upheld rights while failing to protect people. Where Logan’s way existed—not because it was right, but because moments like this made it feel inevitable.