𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 | Elena Gilbert

𝐈𝐈𝐈

WELCOME BACK TIMBERWOLF!

A fashionable black car drove quietly down the bustling street that once held a strange family, the house that once housed three members of the Lavery family was now overrun by police officers and detectives. A massive chunk of the road leading to the house was barricaded off from the public with yellow tape warning people of an active crime scene, most of the locals ignored this though as many neighbours peaked their heads over the tape to get a decent look at what had happened. The stylish car slowly came to a halt just behind the yellow tape as the driver peered over the steering wheel, just like the nosy neighbours had done in an attempt to take a closer look at what had been going on. The driver was a man with dark skin that complimented his shiny hairless head, he stroked his black goatee as he began thinking of how to take a better look at the house which was currently surrounded by the authorities.

He sighed as his hand fell from his lower face to the side of his body, his head looked towards the back of the car as he began swinging the rest of his body with it. On the backseat of the seemingly normal car, was a humongous pile of paper files, boxes and food containers which seemed to have been sitting in the car for quite awhile by this point. His hand movements removed the piles upon piles of files onto the floor of the car as he began to search for something in specific, his darkened eyes darted across each object as he threw it lazily onto the carpet of the car floor. He gasped suddenely as he peered upon a pair of binoculars from under a singular thin piece of paper in closed into a letter addressed to Connor Jordan, his large hands wrapped around the object as he once again looked towards the crime scene, shoving the two dice that hung from the mirror above him as he tried to get a good look.

He rested his eyes upon the binoculars as he scoured through each singular officer trying to find any kind of evidence to prove that his secretive theory was correct. For a few more moments he roamed the outside of the building with his eyes, not knowing where to look initially until the binoculars in his hands spotted a woman who looked to be a detective, who had just come out of the front door of the bungalow that Patrick once lived in. She held a pile of letters in a rather large see through bag, each one having the code words that he and many of the other members of the five would use whilst conversing with eachother. Yes, the man who held the binoculars was a member of the five, he had been sent here after a week of isolation from a one Kieran Lavery. The man in the car sighed as he placed the binoculars down onto his lap, his hands slowly raised to his face as he took heavy breaths out of his lips, the disappointment slowly took over his brain as he realised the only thing this could mean.

Sure, he knew that the drunk had become sloppy over the past few years but he knew he would never leave letters and evidence such as these unattended without having a proper reason - like his untimely death. The man who sat in the cars front seat angrily hit the steering wheel as he let out his frustration, he was by no means close to the dead man but he can't say he's thrilled about his death. Not for any emphatic reasons, but for one reason in particular, having to inform O.A.H about his passing. The black man huffed whilst he rolled his brown eyes as he realised the situation he was in, he subtly began grabbing at any clear paper he could find on his backseat before he eventually took an ink filled pen out of his jeans pocket.

He racked his brain for something he could write down, who knew informing his boss about an inconvenient death could be so hard? He started writing neatly on the piece of paper as if an imaginary lightbulb had gone off in his bald head. As he grew closer to finishing the handwritten letter he used his hand to smooth the outskirts of the paper, after a few moments of what seemed to be tireless writing for the man he finally had finished, which was signified by his hand letting loose of the pen he once held. Looking down at the letter he had written as he reread the neat cursive writing that bore onto the paper.