Page 73 of Logan’s Way

“They reinstated me. With conditions. Ninety-day probation. Monthly reviews. Any future policy violations mean immediate termination.”

Murphy nodded slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup.

“So Logan’s alive. You found him. They gave you your job back. And then what? With Logan?”

This was the harder part—the part where Angus had to admit that finding his brother hadn’t led to getting him back.

“I asked him to come home. Offered to help him navigate whatever legal consequences might come from eighteen years of operating outside the law. Told him we could figure it out together.”

“And he refused.”

“He refused. Said coming home would destroy everything he’d built. That anyone depending on his invisibility would become vulnerable if he became visible. That he’d rather keep doing the work than choose family over protection.” Angus paused. “He also believes his good works can earn redemption. That saving enough people will balance the scales with God. I told him that’s not how grace works. That Jesus alone offers peace and salvation, not accumulated good deeds. He wouldn’t accept it.”

Murphy’s expression softened, the usual professional distance giving way to something more compassionate.

“So you watched him walk away.”

“I watched him walk away.”

The admission settled between them, carrying something that words couldn’t fully express. Murphy set her coffee cup down and leaned back, her eyes fixed on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this while it was happening?”

It was the real question—the one that mattered more than Logan’s choices or the hearing’s outcome.

“Because I was afraid,” Angus said quietly. “Afraid that if I told you what I was discovering, you’d see me making the same choices Logan made—operating outside the system, prioritizing my own judgment over collective authority, heading toward the same place he ended up. I didn’t want you to watch me become what he became.”

“Were you? Becoming what he became?”

“I was moving in that direction,” Angus admitted. “Following leads that required violating policy, making choices that felt necessary in the moment but looked like insubordination when recorded. Seeing that Logan’s way actually saved people—and knowing it was still wrong.”

“But you didn’t cross the final line.”

“I didn’t cross the final line. But I stood close enough to understand why people cross it—close enough to see the appeal of effectiveness over obedience. And I was terrified that if you saw me standing there, you’d realize I wasn’t who you thought I was.”

Murphy was quiet for a long moment, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer but still direct.

“Angus, I’m a medical examiner. I spend my days working with law enforcement officers who stand at lines they shouldn’t cross. Officers who see the gaps the system leaves open and wrestle with whether filling those gaps justifies violating everything they’ve sworn to uphold. I know what that wrestling looks like. I’ve seen good officers walk toward darkness because they believed outcomes justified methods.”

She leaned forward.

“What I haven’t seen from you—what I needed to see—was you choosing me, my insight, my presence over isolation when that wrestling got hard. You cut me out because you were afraid I’d judge you for standing near a line. But standing near a line isn’t the same as crossing it. And even if you had crossed it, I would have wanted to know. I would have wanted to be there. Not because I would have condoned it, but because going it alone is what makes crossing lines easier.”

The observation struck Angus with quiet force. She was right. He’d chosen solitude over vulnerability because solitude felt safer than risking judgment. He’d protected himself while convincing himself he was protecting her from watching him struggle.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You deserved better than distance and cryptic texts. You deserved honesty, openness, and connection even when those were uncomfortable. I was wrong to cut you out.”

Murphy held his gaze, something shifting in her expression.

“I accept your apology. But, Angus—if we’re going to keep doing this, keep building whatever this relationship is becoming, I need you to trust that I can handle hard things. That I can sit beside you in the dark places without needing you to pretend being someone you’re not. Can you do that?”

The question was fair. Direct. Requiring a commitment he hadn’t been willing to risk when Logan’s investigation had seemed too complicated to share.

“I can,” he said. “I will. No more shutting you out when things get difficult.”

“Good.”

She stood and moved to the couch beside him, the distance she’d maintained dissolving now that the necessary conversation had happened. Angus felt her nearness as relief—not absolution exactly, but forgiveness offered without requiring him to earn it through performance.