The Hollow (An Avengers FanFiction)

Chapter Eighteen

"Logan, what are you doing?" Jordan asked as he entered to room. I was standing on the couch by the wall. Pictures were pinned and strung across the wall. Sherlock's coat was laid next to me as all I wore was a t-shirt. "Aren't you afraid someone will see your arm?" 

I didn't reply. To be honest, I was too focused. All the information I could gather on my dad on my own was strung up on the wall, along with all the information of the victims. Why? Why leave a note now? There wasn't a note with the first body... or was there?

"He did know that the killer was coming..." I murmured, "By the wounds in his hands from digging his nails into his palms. He was nervous..." My fingers laid on my chin as I continued to think. 

"Logan!" a voice yelled. I turned toward it. 

"What is it?" I asked as I rolled my eyes. 

"You need to pay attention to your surroundings. Anyway, I brought lunch home, so come eat it," Jordan says as he heads back toward the kitchen. 

"I'm doing an experiment. Sherlock says that digestion slows him down and I don't need to be slowed down at the moment," I explained. "Anyway, I'm going out," I said nonchalantly.

"Going where?" he asked. 

"For a smoke," I said, "I'll be back."  

Before I started downstairs, I heard Jordan ask, "Since when has she smoked?"

🔫🔫🔫

I headed toward a pub, just a little ways away from the home of the first victim. I opened the door and quickly walked toward the bar. I sit myself down as my legs dangle over the wooden floor. The bartender was cleaning a glass as she turned to me. 

"Sorry, I'm gonna need to see some ID," the bartender said. I looked her up and down. 

"I'm actually not here to drink, but I do need some information. I'm working on a case, you see, and one of the victims lived nearby," I explained. I pulled out his picture. "Recognize him?" I asked. 

"Yeah," she said indifferently. "Came in about a week ago; poor guy seemed on edge." Her accent was cockney. "One of the bartenders asked him what was wrong, but he just sorta mumbled how he'd made mistakes before," she continued, "We thought he must've been on some sorta drug, so we kicked him out. Why? What happened to him?"

"He was murdered a few days ago," I answered coldly. 

"Well, if it's any consolation, he left his jacket here. Refused to take it with him," she said, "I could get it out of the lost and found for ya."

"Yes, thank you," I said. She nodded and proceeded toward the back of the pub. I looked behind the counter and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass from under it. I poured myself a glass before pouring some straight into my mouth. 

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" she asked as she came back with the jacket. 

"None of your business," I said as I took a swig. 

"I never did get to ask about the prosthetic arm," she said as she sat next to me, placing the jacket on the counter. 

"And you're never going to ask," I stated coldly as I picked up the jacket. I went through the pockets as I grabbed what felt like slightly crumpled paper. I took it out and it was a letter in the exact same handwriting. The exact same words as the last note graced the crumpled letter. "Thanks for the coat and drink," I said as I stood up in a sort of daze. I walked out slowly with the thought of the possibility of my dad being a serial killer. I know he freaked out on me and my mom when I was younger, but before that, he seemed like such a great father. I mean, I did become an assassin, but... I don't know. I can't explain how unfathomable this thought was.