Dear Freddie,

I have a feeling that something is wrong in Maine. You know, just a feeling that hit me in the head like a brick. Now I'm walking with this dent in my brain until you come back and say that's everything fine.

Do you like it there? More than here?

I'm carving little creatures out. By the time you'll come back there'll be twenty more. I know you like them.

The sessions start tomorrow. Should I go or should I stay? I let you choose.

My regards to your cousin and aunt.

Johnathan has no sense of friendship.

Your lost friend,

Heath

What made her think that she could ever manage it? Winnifred was silently cursing herself, carrying a glass of water to Margaret.

"Oh Margie, why did you get sick at this particular moment?" She complained, sitting down at her cousin's side. Margaret didn't answer, silently watching how Winnifred splits open the foil wrap with her nail. Stifling a cough, Margaret stretched out her palm.

"Swallow this," Winnifred instructed, dropping a tablet into her hand. She waited until her cousin swallowed the pill and drank the water, then tucked the blanket.

"What will I do without you?" Winnifred quietly said, wincing at the sound of Margaret's cough. Her cousin's sickly eyes flickered upwards.

"You'll be fine. Just enjoy the food." Margaret thought for a moment.

"And if you think you feel a spasm coming up, rest." Winnifred snorted, standing up and turning away.

"Spasm coming up...You are aware they sometimes happen on spot, without any friendly warning?" Winnifred rubbed her forehead.

"Whatever, Margie..." She turned back around and forced out a tired smile. Before she could say anything else, the doorbell rang. Winnifred quickly kissed her cousin on the cheek and grabbed her backpack.

"Get well. Don't miss me," she called on the way, slamming the door behind her. Margaret followed her with her eyes.

Winnifred flung the door opened. Jack taughtly smiled to her, offering his hand. Winnifred gave him a tense smile, glancing at the expensive car behind his shoulder.

"It's a Ferrari," Jack noted, catching her gaze. Winnifred looked back at Jack and smiled.

"If you think that tells me anything, it doesn't. Don't forget, we're technologically, socially, economically, and politically behind every civilization in the world."

"Doesn't sound like the place I came from," Jack commented, opening the door in front of her. Winnifred broadly grinned.

"Because morally we're advanced. And that's the only thing that matters in this bloody world."

Jack invited her for dinner since it was the last day in Maine. Technically, it was her and Margaret, but Margaret got sick, so now Winnifred on her own.

The Browning estate was gorgeous. Chandeliers and decorative candle holders, a grand piano in the living room, and a balcony overlooking the sea. Yet it seemed lifeless and marble-like, like all the liveliness has been vacuumed out like dust. Winnifred tensely drank the bitter wine, not daring to remove her eyes from the plate. She has been noticing with increased worry that Jack has been drinking a lot of wine; he always had a tendency to drink more than usual. Usually, she and Heath would make jokes about it, but now this habit was turning a threatening curve for Winnifred.

"And I thought you were brave."

Winnifred glanced up, pausing her fork from doing circles in her plate. Jack was observing her from the top of his glass.

"Excuse me?" Winnifred tentatively asked. Jack deeply chuckled, rotating the glass in front of his eyes.

"Here I thought you were brave, and so far, you've been spending the entire evening watching your plate. You really can't handle yourself without Margaret?"

"Just like you, Jack," Winifred placed the fork down on her plate and hid her hands on her lap.

"Doesn't seem that you're being very respectful to your guests."

"Guest," Jack merrily corrected her, twisting the glass by its leg. Winnifred went silent, cautiously observing him, her shoes uncomfortably rubbing on the back of her feet. Suddenly, Jack lowered down the glass on the table and stood up, walking around the table and stopping in front of Winifred with an outstretched hand.

"Will you accompany me for a dance?"

Winifred's insides churned into butter, peppered with salty fear.

"Without music?" She raised her eyebrows. Jack sarcastically snorted.

"We can do without."

Winnifred pressed her lips together, then took his hand and stood up. Jack's fingers crushed her hand with unexpected force; Winifred desperately clenched her teeth to sustain herself from wincing. Jack unevenly led her to the living room and stepped in front of her. Winifred sensed sweat slip down her palm and soaking into Jack's. Shit. Winifred focused on his shoulder, careful not to look up. She was fully aware of Jack's alcohol-stenches breath, scorching her curls, and his intent, surgeon-like gaze, dissecting her features with a sharp scalpel. Jack's fingers tightened on her waist.

"Do you know why I invited you?" Winifred lowered her head to hide her scrunching nose from the bitter smell of the alcohol pouring down at her.

"Because you're a gentleman?" Jack quietly, but hysterically laughed, digging his fingers into Winifred's waist.

"Do you seriously think that?" He chuckled, eyes burning like coals.

"No. But if I said what I actually think I would be regard myself lower than I usually do."

"Truly? What about your dear Heath?" Jack snarled, bringing his face up close to Winifred.

"I don't think he'll regard you any lesser if you said whatever shit you have to say."

"God, Jack, how many glasses did you drink?" Winnifred muttered through her clogged up throat. Jack sneered.

"Who cares? You didn't answer my question."

"I care because I don't want to be dancing with a drunkard."

"Well, you are already so answer my damn question," Jack rudely cut her and pulled her closer to himself. Winifred's face scrunched in tension, eyes still avoiding direct eye contact.

"Do you know why I brought you here?" Jack hissed into her ear.

"I'm. Not. Interested." Winnifred gritted through her teeth, her conscience yelling and cursing her in her brain. She pressed her hands against his chest, trying to break contact, but Jack was much stronger when he was drunk.

"When I saw you the cemetery, my first thought was if you still shook about with Heath," Jack quietly continued, eyes wildly searching Winifred's face.

"I know what you think of me; It's about the same of what I think of you." Jack was quiet for a moment, ignoring her attempts to let go. His face became darker, almost sober.

"And when you started speaking, I instantly saw that nothing changed. You were still a dumb girl who wanted some adventure and found it in the most dumb way possible."

"And you're still that rich asshole that our entire school hated," Winifred shot back, furiously glaring at him. Her conscience pleaded her not to stop her train, carrying vulgar and provocative cargo, but it was too late.

"You fucked and played as much as you wanted, and you're couldn't care less about the world around you. Do you know why Heath hated you? He despised your arrogance, he hated the way you would march into a classroom, busted up like a peacock, and he wanted to rip these feathers out of you because underneath you're nothing but an empty waste. Rip Heath, rip me, Billy, Charlotte, everyone, and you'll never stop ripping because our feathers will only grow larger and longer, because we're people, real people and not some shit-covered, foppish cowards!"

Winifred tore her hands from Jack's grasp and now, heavily breathing, glared at him. The sound of the tides evenly resonated through the room. Jack slowly straightened out his back, his face hiding in the shadows from the setting sun.

"What an inspirational speech, Lewly," he quietly said. "But here's a catch; one day, you'll stop being a simple Gotham Local, you'll move on in your career….and I'd like you to repeat it to Heath who would still be wearing his decade old trench coat and dealing cards."

Winifred wordlessly slapped him across his face. She didn't understand what she was doing. The next few seconds were clear. Winnifred turned on her aching heels, grabbed her coat, and ran out of the house.

A/N OK, so we all agree that Browning is NOT a good guy! A shame this is not the end of him...(dun dun dun, foreshadow ;) )

By the way, this is another allusion to Dark Knight; a drinker and a fiend, remember?

(Ok, I have to stop now, before I reveal the entire plot.)

Again, thanks for reading!