Logan's Way - Angus Reid Mysteries Book 7 Paperback

He thought finding the truth would bring peace.

He was wrong. Dead wrong.

For eighteen years, Sheriff Angus Reid has carried the weight of one unsolved case—the disappearance of his brother Logan. No body. No closure. Just questions that haunt every quiet moment.

Then new evidence surfaces that changes everything.

What begins as a procedural investigation becomes a dangerous descent into family secrets, small-town corruption, and a system built to quietly erase inconvenient lives.

The deeper Angus searches, the higher the cost.

Because some truths don't set you free. Some discoveries force impossible choices. And some brothers are lost in ways that finding them can never fix.

This isn’t just another investigation.

This is the one that will shake his foundation.

Logan’s Way is the long-awaited turning point of the Angus Reid Mysteries — a gripping Christian mystery thriller filled with cold-case investigation, buried secrets, and faith-threaded suspense for readers who love small-town crime fiction with moral depth.

Perfect for readers who love:

• Cold cases that become personal
• Faith-tested protagonists
• Small-town secrets with high stakes
• Clean suspense without graphic content
• Impossible moral choices
• Family mysteries with eternal consequences
• Stories that challenge what doing good really means

Inspired by:

Proverbs 14:12: There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death.

Scroll up and click "Buy Now" to discover why, sometimes, finding the truth is only the beginning.

Logan’s Way is book 7 in the Angus Reid Mysteries series.

*Not recommended as a standalone. Best enjoyed as part of the series.

Prologue

The man who believed himself untouchable sat in his car outside the apartment complex for the third night in a row. Engine off. Lights dark. Patient.

He had learned patience over the years. Had learned that persistence looked like devotion if you framed it correctly. That boundaries were suggestions enforced only when someone cared enough to enforce them. That most people would rather avoid conflict than confront it.

She would understand eventually. Would see that what felt like pressure was actually commitment. That following her to a new city just meant he cared too much to let go.

The restraining order was paper. Distance was temporary. Fear would fade once she remembered how good they'd been together before she'd gotten confused about what love looked like.

He checked his phone. Almost midnight. Her light was still on.

Good. She was awake. Would see him if he stood in the right place. Would know he was thinking about her.

He reached for the door handle.

Then stopped.

Someone was standing beside the car. Hadn't walked up. Hadn't made a sound. Just... there. In the shadow where streetlight didn't quite reach.

The man's heart kicked once, hard, before training steadied it. Probably a neighbor. Maybe building security. Nothing that couldn't be explained with the right tone, the right story about waiting for a friend who was late coming home.

He rolled the window down.

"Can I help you?"

The figure didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there in stillness that felt wrong—not threatening exactly, but present in a way that made the man's carefully constructed confidence feel suddenly thin.

"I'm just waiting for someone," the man said, voice carrying the precise blend of casual and annoyed that usually made people back off.

The figure stepped closer. Not aggressive. Not theatrical. Just one step that brought him barely into the edge of light.

The man couldn't see his face clearly. But he could see that the stranger was looking at something—a phone maybe, or a small notebook. Reading something while standing there in the cold like he had all night to stand and all night to wait.

"You should leave," the stranger said quietly. Not a threat. Just information.

The man felt anger spike beneath his ribs. "I don't take orders from—"

"She has a sister in Portland. You found that address in two hours." The stranger's voice was still quiet. Still factual. "You have a storage unit. Number 247. You've been keeping things that don't belong to you. Photographs. Clothing. Items you took from places you shouldn't have been."

The man's chest tightened.

"You have a job you care about protecting," the stranger continued. "A supervisor who doesn't know you've been falsifying timecards. A landlord who doesn't know about the lease violations. A parole officer who thinks you've been attending meetings you stopped going to six months ago."

Each sentence landed like weight.

"I don't know who you think—"

"I know exactly who you are." The stranger's tone hadn't changed. Still quiet. Still carrying no heat. "And I know what you'll lose if you stay."

The man's hands were shaking now. Not fear exactly. Something colder.

"You can't—"

"I already did." The stranger stepped back into shadow. "You have a choice. Keep coming here and lose everything. Or leave and keep what you have. The choice is yours. But it's the only choice you get."

The man sat frozen, mind spinning through scenarios, through responses, through the sudden recognition that someone had been watching him as carefully as he'd been watching her. That his confidence had been built on invisibility that no longer existed.

The stranger was gone. Hadn't walked away. Just... gone. Back into darkness that made it impossible to know if he was still standing there or had left entirely.

The man started his engine.

He drove away from the apartment complex without looking back. Drove until he was three blocks away, then five, then ten. Pulled over in a grocery store parking lot and sat there shaking, mind running through every violation the stranger had listed, every piece of information that shouldn't have been known.

He could go back. Could call the police. Could claim harassment.

Except he couldn't. Because everything the stranger had said was true. And involving law enforcement meant answering questions he couldn't afford to answer.

The man drove home instead. And the next morning, he didn't return to the apartment complex. Didn't drive past her workplace. Didn't check the sister's address in Portland.

He left. Because staying cost more than leaving. Because someone had made the math clear in a way that left no room for the calculations he'd been comfortable making.

Behind him, a woman slept safely in an apartment she'd moved to for protection the system couldn't guarantee.

Somewhere in darkness, someone who believed outcomes justified methods moved on to the next gap the law couldn't fill.

The intervention worked.

That was all that mattered.

Or so the intervener believed.

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