Page 72 of Logan’s Way

Murphy’s house sat three blocks from the medical examiner’s office, a small Cape Cod with blue shutters and a front porch that caught afternoon sun. Angus had been there dozens of times over the past year—casual dinners, late-night conversations after difficult cases, ordinary moments that had built something he’d nearly destroyed by choosing silence over presence during the weeks Logan’s investigation had consumed him.

He parked his truck at the curb and sat for a moment, watching light fade toward evening. The hearing was over. His job was secure, conditionally. The Logan investigation had reached its conclusion—brother found, brother lost, eighteen years of searching resolved without reunion.

Now came the harder part: accounting to someone who deserved better than the distance he’d imposed.

Murphy’s porch light was on despite daylight still holding. She’d seen him pull up, he realized and was waiting to see if he’d walk to the door or sit in his truck, avoiding the conversation that couldn’t be postponed any longer.

He got out and walked up the path to her front steps.

She opened the door before he knocked, standing in the doorway wearing jeans and a sweater with paint stains on one sleeve—evidence she’d been working on the kitchen cabinets she’d mentioned refinishing months ago. Her dark hair was pulled back, her expression guarded but not hostile.

“Angus.”

“Murph. Can I come in?”

She studied him for a moment, something flickered behind her eyes that could have been relief—or the caution keeps relief from overriding judgment.

“You can,” she said finally, stepping aside.

He walked into the living room that smelled like coffee and paint thinner, the familiar space evidence of life continuing while he’d been absent, of Murphy managing without him because that’s what she’d had to do when he’d chosen to handle Logan’s investigation alone.

“Coffee?” she asked, moving toward the kitchen.

“Please.”

She poured two cups, handed him one, and settled into the armchair across from the couch where he’d sat. Not beside him. Creating distance that mirrored the distance he’d imposed.

“I got your text yesterday,” she said. “That you’d found what you were looking for but didn’t get what you hoped for. I assume that cryptic summary has an actual explanation behind it.”

Her voice was steady, controlled, betraying none of the anger she had every right to feel. Just observation. Waiting.

“It does,” Angus said. “And I owe you that explanation. Along with an apology for cutting you out.”

“You do.”

The acknowledgment was simple, direct, without embellishment. Murphy had never been someone who softened truths to make them easier to hear.

Angus set his coffee cup on the side table and leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees.

“The missing persons case I was investigating—the one that started all of this—was Logan. The death certificate you helped me find eighteen months ago was fabricated. Logan faked his own death eighteen years ago so he could operate outside systems that he believed were failing people.”

Murphy’s expression shifted slightly—not shock exactly, but recognition that the weight Angus had been carrying now made sense.

“You found him.”

“I did. Met him face to face. He’s alive, Murph. Has been this whole time. Operating as—” Angus paused, choosing his words carefully. “As someone who intervenes where law enforcement can’t or won’t. Relocating predators. Protecting victims. Filling gaps the system leaves open.”

“A vigilante.”

“Yes.”

Murphy absorbed this, her medical examiner’s mind probably already working through implications, questions, legal complications.

“And the department? Do they know?”

“I had an administrative hearing yesterday morning. The panel reviewed my suspension. They asked about my investigation methodology during my leave. I refused to provide details that would implicate Logan or reveal his existence. I told them the information wasn’t relevant to whether I could function within departmental guidelines.”

“That must have gone over well.”