I Am the Infamous

-11- A Murderer's IQ

"No." Winslow's low voice repeated from behind a closed door. Caroline slumped, knocking her head against the wood.

"I can't stand it in here." She put a hand to her forehead for dramatics. "I can feel my sanity... slipping away... just like loose sand in the wind."

"Enough with the poetics," Winslow chuckled, the knob of the door remaining stiff. "It's been thirty minutes."

The moment she had gotten to her house with Ferris throwing his head like a dolt, Prima chomping at her bit with her ears back, and Adelaide in a fit from being around the vicious mare, it was safe to say that Caroline was beyond stressed. Winslow was waiting at the stable door when the three had trotted up the dirt path. If he hadn't had a morning shift, yet another one of her father's horses would have been ridden all the way out to Ville Farrow. If Corvid knew about this, he would bury Caroline six feet under. 

Caroline had dismounted her ruffled cob, and went to find the stable boy to cool down and groom the horses, but Winslow stopped her before she could make another move.

"No, no, no." He had held out his hands with his fingers angled to form a cross, warding her off. "You need to stay away for a while, love. At least long enough to make sure you're not carrying that flu."

"I'm fine—"

"That what?" Margaret had gone rigid, backing away from Caroline. "Did he say flu?"

"I didn't go anywhere near Luli."

"Yes, you may feel fine now but you could be as sick as a dog a week from now." Winslow had batted a hand when she opened her mouth to defend herself. He was right though. Like always.

Margaret had already darted to the other side of the yard, scrubbing her hand with her pocket soap. Her blue eyes were wild with paranoia.

"I still want to help." Caroline had toyed with her sleeve, frustrated beyond measures. This wasn't the time to be holed up alone. She wasn't sick. But she knew that influenza could be just as dangerous as the serial killer the police had yet to find. "I can't merely lay around and wait until another person is murdered."

"That's not our responsibility!" Margaret had shouted from afar, waving her arms like a lunatic.

"But Théo—"

Winslow had jerked his arms up again, forming the finger-cross once again. "Shun."

"Winslow."

"Shun the demons away."

"I'm not possessed," She had huffed, dirt stuck to the bottom of her shoes. She was in a dreadful need of a shower. Perhaps she should just go inside and take a few days. "Or sick. Stop it."

"Stop stalling and go." He raised his dark brows, his expression strongly insisting.

And now here she was. Thirty minutes into isolation to her bedroom. Winslow and Jude were on the floor of her hall, so she could still help. As for Margaret, she was long, long, long gone. Home and probably scrubbing the skin off her body.

"We never elaborated on finding a pattern." Caroline offered, rummaging through her dresser to find her knitting needles. She only knitted when she was stressed and it was more aggressive than one would think. Yanking a ball of purple and baby blue yarn from her basket, Caroline knelt back against her wall, and exasperatedly began to knit.

"Margaret left her notes with me before... how do I put it delicately... she sprinted home like a madwoman."

"That's delicately?" Jude murmured from the other side of the door. "Well, actually... you're not wrong."