This scene would be placed in the middle of Chapter 9 of Cold Limits. It has the same opening as that chapter, but segues into an alternate incident prior to Evelyn remembering Christopher's address.

Where they walked, no one recognized Jeff, although a few people stared at Evelyn in her dirty, ripped dress. The moth-wing gown had been reduced to little more than a tattered bathrobe, the hem jagged where she had torn off a strip of cloth to tie around her waist and hold it closed.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked when they reached an empty street corner.

"Yeah," he answered.

She was still a little dazed herself. "…I got him in time?"

"Yeah, you got him in time."

"Bastard," she muttered, swiping hair from her face. "Thinks he can control people…" Then, seeming to realize who she was talking to, her face flushed red. "No offense."

How strange she was. There was something about her that reminded him of the Florida beach, where he had tried to escape from himself. Maybe it was the dusting of freckles across her nose, like grains of sand, or the blue in her eyes, like the sea reflecting the sky.

She noticed him staring. "What is it?"

"I never thought I'd get to meet you in person."

"Well, you wouldn't let me visit you."

"My visiting list was full."

"Yeah, right."

"I was afraid you'd gotten the wrong idea about me."

She turned towards him. "I'm not stupid, you know. Your letters were sappy. You laid it on way too thick. I knew you just wanted money."

"Not just money," he murmured. "I was lonely. I needed someone to talk to about something other than what I did, but I knew no one wanted to just have a simple conversation with me. So I pretended I was someone I'm not." He sighed. "My lying always did more bad than good."

"Well, you don't have to lie to anyone anymore," she pointed out.

They kept walking, though neither had a clear destination in mind.

"Back there, when I said I loved you, I really should've just said thank you," she muttered.

"Did you mean it?"

She deftly ignored his question. "You surprised me. I really thought you were going to do it."

"I thought so, too."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "It wasn't like a voice told me no, or anything corny like that. I certainly had it in me to do it. I just… didn't. It's hard to explain."

"You had to have a reason."

He turned to face her, walking backwards down the sidewalk. "I was compelled by otherworldly forces beyond my control which made me act against my nature, I guess. Is that a good enough reason?"

"Maybe if you were insane," she said. "But the jury decided you weren't. I'd love to believe you had a change of heart, though."

The streets ahead of them were empty, but the buildings all had lights on. The stillness and quiet was eerie.

"You never answered my question," Jeff pressed. "Did you mean what you said?"

She smiled thinly. "Don't you go getting the wrong idea about me. I'm a married woman." But soon her smile faded. "I don't remember where Christopher lives. I know he was in Chicago… I assumed being here would jog my memory."

Jeff didn't say anything. He remembered clearly his grandmother's address in West Allis, but after all that they had seen and experienced here, he supposed her forgetting an important detail like that wasn't totally out of the question.

"I wish Martin was with us…" She rubbed her forehead, her brow furrowed with worry. "What should we do? Try and find our way back to his truck?"

"I don't know how to get back there."

"Me neither." She gnawed on her lower lip. "It's late. Cold out. We should try and find a place to stay, I guess… wait it out."

"You mean like a motel?" he asked, giving her a sidelong glance. "You got money?"

Stopping, she took off her shoe and pulled out a wad of cash. He halted and turned toward her as she counted out the money, reminded suddenly of ice cream and summer. Every kid stuck their dollar bills in their sneakers, because wallets and purses were for grown-ups…

"Fifty bucks. That should be enough for a room."

"Yeah," he murmured. He would've preferred to have a room to himself. "Kind of weird, worrying about having enough money to get a motel room in the afterlife."

She smirked and tucked the money into her shoe as she slipped it back onto her foot. "To be honest, it's probably the least weird thing I've had to do since I got here."

They found a motel, all right—a dingy place on the side of the road. As they approached, Jeff finally looked up from the ground and stopped in his tracks.

"What is it?" Evelyn asked, pausing to look over her shoulder.

"…I dunno," he mumbled, and started walking again.

They entered the lobby. Somewhere in the building, a record player was blaring classical music. A man sat behind the front desk, fiddling with something Jeff couldn't see in the dim lighting. He didn't look up until they were standing directly in front of him, at which point he dropped whatever he had been holding on the floor and kicked it out of sight.

"We'd like a room, please," Evelyn said, placing the money on the counter.

The man took the money and examined it. His movements were twitchy and skittish. Jeff avoided looking at him; instead he wandered around the room, peeking into a large utility closet filled with various tools. He hesitated again, overcome with the same eerie feeling he'd had when he first laid eyes on the place. Only now, the feeling was much stronger, twisting his gut.

"This money's no good," the man said, his shrill voice cutting through Jeff's thoughts.

Evelyn started to protest as he threw the bills at her, but then he pulled out the ledger and thrust it under nose.

"I'm just the night man, so I don't care. Nobody's staying here anyhow, except stupid kids with their loud music and their marijuana and booze… You're not like them, are you?"

"No," Evelyn said softly. Picking up the pen, she moved to sign—but Jeff grabbed her arm, pulling her aside.

"I think I've been here before," he said, keeping his voice low. "I went here when I… you know."

Her brow furrowed, but not from confusion. She looked worried. "Should we leave?

In answer, he dragged her back toward the entrance. But when Jeff opened the door, it was to a wall of rain. Evelyn yelped beside him, startled. Neither had heard the rain pattering against the roof, and yet it was already a full-blown storm.

Jeff tried to close the door, but the wind was too strong. Evelyn added her weight, and they just barely managed to close it. As if by a miracle, the door remained shut despite the tremendous force behind it.

"Jesus!" Jeff sputtered, sweeping wet hair out of his eyes. "Is that a fucking hurricane? In Chicago?"

His clothes were soaked through, but for him it was less of a problem. Evie's already ruined dress was now clinging to her shivering body, the grayish-white fabric rendered transparent by the rain. He could see everything.

And so could the man at the desk. "It's not completely unheard of, y'know," he said, craning his neck to leer at Evelyn. "Hope you two weren't planning on going anywhere. Anyway, uh, you still gotta sign in here…"

Trembling, she made her way over to the desk and signed in. As soon as the tip of her pen left the page, the man grabbed the ledger and whirled it around, his lips moving slightly as he read what she had written.

"Mr. and Mrs. Adams…" He looked up and added in a humorless tone, "Gomez and Morticia?"

Evelyn's laugh was forced. The man handed her a numbered key, then went back to staring down at whatever he was hiding under the desk.

Dripping all over the carpeting, their shoes sloshing with every step, Jeff and Evelyn made their way to their assigned room. It was small and cramped, with only one bed.

Slipping into the bathroom, he went rifling through the cabinets looking for towels. He could hear Evelyn's teeth chattering through the doorway behind him. When he found a towel and went to hand it to her, she awkwardly draped it around her body, trying to hide from him.

"I'm gonna take a shower," he said before closing the door.

It was then that he realized the condition the bathroom was in. He took one look at the mildewed walls, gingerly turned the water on and watched a low-pressure trickle escape from the shower head before he decided the rain was all the shower he needed at the moment. He found another towel and dried himself off as best he could, stripping down to his underwear and wringing his clothes out in the sink. They'd only been exposed to the downpour for a few seconds, and yet they'd become completely waterlogged.

He put his still damp clothes back on and came out. The first thing he saw was Evelyn's dress lying in a puddle on the floor. She had wrapped herself in the towel and one of the bed sheets, but her pinched expression and red cheeks clearly displayed her discomfort and embarrassment.

Avoiding her gaze, he looked around at the room again, frowning. He didn't want to have to sleep in the same bed as her if he could avoid it. His reluctance had as much to do with what had happened with Jim as it did with his own sense of privacy and consideration for her feelings. He would never admit that he was actually afraid of her… well, he just didn't know her well enough, and he wasn't in the mood to take chances. The guy at the desk said most of the rooms were empty—maybe he could have one to himself.

"I'm gonna go have a look around," he said, turning to leave… and hesitating, waiting for her response.

"Okay," she said. "I'll stay here."

He nodded and headed out, his lips pursed in consternation. Why did he care whether she acknowledged him or not?

They had been through a lot together these past couple of days. Uncharacteristically for him, he'd come to respect and value her, if only because she was the last person he could trust in this crazy upside-down world. Even if there was no hurricane keeping them trapped here, he liked to believe that he wouldn't leave her behind, nor would she abandon him.

Crossing the hallway, he tried the door handle of the room across from theirs and was surprised when it opened. Inside the room was nearly identical to their own, except for the presence of two suitcases on the bed. There was no sign of the room's occupants.

Approaching cautiously, Jeff opened one of the suitcases. Inside were women's clothing and toiletries. He opened the other, which contained men's clothing—one size larger than what he wore. Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then took a shirt and pants for himself. After closing the suitcases, he dashed out of the room. He figured he could get away with taking a couple of articles of clothing, but not spending the night there.

He tried a few of the other rooms, but the doors were locked. Evelyn was asleep when he returned, cocooned in the towel and sheets. Sighing, he went into the bathroom to change, turned out the lights and laid down beside her. He was so tired, he didn't even care about having to share the bed with her anymore. He just wanted to sleep…

Right when he was starting to nod off, he heard a voice say his name. Opening his eyes, he demanded, "Who's there?"

"Nobody."

He sat up. The room was pitch black, but he was vaguely aware of Evelyn's body still asleep beside him. Their proximity wasn't much different from when they had spent the night in that barn. And much like that night, he couldn't hear her breathing.

"Who the fuck are you?" he repeated.

"No one," the voice replied.

"What do you want this time, asshole?" he hissed. "I've dealt with you people before. You think you're going to end up any different?"

But he wasn't the one who dealt with Mike and Jim. Martin had sacrificed himself to save them from Mike, and Evelyn had delivered the killing blow to Jim. There was still a third member of the posse, the younger boy who reminded him of his brother David. But somehow Jeff sensed the one in the room now wasn't him. This was something else entirely.

"I know what you know," the voice purred. "And I know what you don't know, too. I'm a knowledgeable demon, but then so are most of yours. And you have many, many, many demons still to be dealt with."

"No I don't," he snapped. "It's all taken care of. I don't have to fight those battles on my own."

"All the same," the voice continued. "You must fight. And I have been sparring with you from the beginning."

Jeff's blood ran cold. He recognized the voice. "You were the old man in the lake, and the bartender…"

"Yes. But don't mistake me. I am a creature of such crafty subtlety, you have yet failed to guess what part of you I prey upon. And that is why you will not survive my wiles, Jeff. Because you don't know what it is to be without me."

"You're guilt."

"Close, but no."

"You're… you're something I'm afraid of."

"Come, that's no answer." The voice laughed, a low hissing sound like steam escaping a breached pipe. "Are you sure you want to see me? I don't think you do. It would be so very embarrassing for you both."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I have a deal to offer. Leave this place alone, and I will do no harm to you. So long as you leave her to me."

"No," Jeff answered immediately, remembering Martin's warning.

"Tsk, tsk. You haven't even heard the rest of the terms," the voice growled. "If you don't get your ass out of here, I'll make you wish you had never responded to her letters."

"Why do you want her?"

"I want you apart from her. But unlike my idiot brethren, I can make do with what I have—and without making a spectacle of myself." The tone of the voice became oily and slick. "Have you ever found yourself utterly at the mercy of another human being?"

Jeff's heart hardened. "Plenty of times."

"I'm not talking about that," they snarled. "Sure, you've been tried and sentenced by a jury, judged in the court of public opinion—justly, might I add. You've been taken advantage of, too—tricked, beaten, raped. Nothing you haven't done to others, rrrrrr. But you've never entrusted your fate to anyone." For once, the voice spoke clear as crystal. "This will be the first time you do so willingly, should you choose to stay with her."

"What do you want from her?"

"Mrs. Eve Adams," the voice purred, oozing cruelty and malice. "Why didn't you ask her why she wrote that in the ledger?"

"I don't care what she wrote," he said. He glanced back at Evelyn. She was still sleeping soundly. "I don't care what she wants from me. It's irrelevant. It's impossible."

"'She wrote you a letter,'" the voice went on gleefully. "'A short note, nothing serious. She told you she would pray for you, but she didn't expect to hear anything back. Oh, but she did. Against all odds, you wrote her a reply, beginning a correspondence that kept her afloat... but dead men can't write letters from beyond the grave'…"

Jeff squeezed his eyes shut. "Just what I need. More blood on my hands."

"Don't flatter yourself," the voice creaked. "She's been deluding herself into believing that here and now, in 1978, you haven't killed anyone yet—that you are still just a lost boy with a terrible secret. She sees you as an innocent, young and comparatively unspoiled." It dropped to a whisper. "Did you see the way she looked at you, practically naked from the rain? It had nothing to do with her modesty. You were soaked, too. I'm telling you, man—you may not have failed her, but she will fail you. Bet your soul on it. Anyway, still thinking of staying?"

Jeff's skin was crawling at his words, but he wasn't about to be fooled into doing something stupid. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Because there is no truth."

"That sounds like a lie."

"Exactly. But you don't know either way. You can only choose."

"What will happen if I stay?"

"I'll be honest with you, just this once. In this game, you're damned if you do, damned if you don't. It all depends on whether you can make it through without drowning. Come on, it'll be fun!"

Their hissing laughter dwindled to nothing, and the room fell silent. The voice had gone, leaving him to make his choice.

Evelyn went on sleeping, blissfully unaware. Jeff's heart began to pound. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, but he still had yet to finalize his decision.

I'll wake her and we'll find Martin, he thought. I'm not playing this game.

He reached down to pick up his shoes—and a hand with hair on its palm wrapped around his wrist.

It dragged him down, knocking him onto the floor. Landing flat on his belly, Jeff didn't even have a chance to cry out, the air having been knocked from his lungs. Underneath the bed, he caught a brief glimpse of the the thing's face. An ancient spirit, half-man, half-beast, they yanked his left arm forward until it was obscured by the shadows.

"That is not an option," they snarled, fury in their clouded eyes. Something closed around Jeff's finger in the dark, shattering the bone.

He screamed. The creature shoved him away, back out into the open, leaving him whimpering and gasping for breath on the floor of the motel room.

Evelyn bolted upright, jerked violently awake by his cries. She nearly fell out of the bed in her rush to help him. Fumbling for the light switch, she ran to his side. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Jeff had managed to prop himself up by leaning against the bed, his right hand clutching his left. Dumbly, he held out his injury for her to see, his eyes watering. A thin gold band, much too small for him, was wound around his ring finger.

Evelyn's eyes widened. "Where did you get this?"

"I don't know, I don't know… I think my finger is broken…" His voice was thready and broken by gasps of pain.

"Jeff, this looks like my wedding ring."

"Get it off," he pleaded more forcefully. "Take it back, please—"

She knelt before him, tentatively taking his wrist. He whimpered when her thumb brushed the fracture, and though he fought to stifle himself when she tried to remove it, he could only stand it for so long.

"Stop! Just stop!" He staggered to his feet, jerking away from her. "Don't touch me. Don't come anywhere near me."

Stumbling past her, he made his way into the bathroom and shut the door, locking it behind him. He turned on the sink and fumbled with the soap, wincing as he tried to slip the ring off himself. It was no use. The band of gold was biting into the break in his knuckle bone, holding it firmly in place.

"Jeff," Evelyn called to him from the other side of the door. "I don't understand what's happening. Can't you explain?"

As a matter of fact, no, he didn't think he could. If he tried, she would become defensive or flatly deny everything the voice had told him. After all, who could ever admit to being infatuated with him? Perhaps the old man was right, and they were better off on their own than together.

He turned off the water. "Evie?"

"Yeah?" Her voice sounded hoarse.

"Do you think you can find Martin and bring him back here?"

"I don't know where he is," she replied, exasperated. They both had no clue where the truck driver had gone. "He could be anywhere by now."

"What about Christopher?"

"I told you, I don't remember where he lives. It's been so many years..."

It was hopeless. With the storm raging outside, she couldn't leave him even if she wanted to. Martin had told them to stay together, to protect each other. But had he foreseen this predicament when he decided to sacrifice himself for their sake?

"Jeff, we'll figure it out." Evelyn's voice was plaintive though she was trying to reassure him. "Even if we have to break the ring to get it off you. I don't mind if it gets destroyed. It's just a piece of metal."

Jeff turned toward the door. "Why are you always trying to save me?"

"Because I care."

"You care too much." He pressed his uninjured hand against the door. "Do you realize how close I came to… to raping you earlier? I almost did it. I said I was compelled not to, but it was really just because I didn't want to. I didn't want you. If the circumstances were any different…"

There was silence for a long time beyond the door. Then, a small voice whispered, "If you want me to go, I'll go."

"No." His hand reached for the lock automatically, before he stopped himself from turning the latch. "Please stay."

"Why? So you can remind me of what happened?" She made an effort to sound angry, but he could only hear the hurt, bewilderment, and fear in her voice. "It left a scar, what he did to me."

He had noticed the scar, but only because every injury he'd suffered as of late had healed with no marks left behind, regardless of how severe it was. The gash Jim had ripped open in her remained. In his mind's eye he traced the pale line with his finger, cutting from the bottom of her ribcage down to her abdomen, white heat blooming in his belly…

"Why don't you come out?" she asked, startling him. "We can go find Martin together."

His stomach flip-flopped, a mixture of nausea and arousal flushing his skin. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Pressing his back against the door, he held up his left hand. His ring finger was broken, yes, but he hadn't taken into account that the band was cutting off the blood flow. His finger had swelled up and was turning blue. He would have liked to chalk up everything he was feeling now to the side effects of pain and poor circulation, but he knew better. The ring was causing him more trouble than bad blood and broken bones.

"You don't want to know."

"I know who you are. I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be afraid of me," he murmured.

"That's stupid and you know it. Besides, I can't die twice." She was growing frustrated with his evasiveness. "What's this about?"

"It's about your wedding ring giving me fucking gangrene." He grimaced, his hand twitching from the pain and numbness. "Look, there was a utility closet back in the lobby. It had all kinds of tools… there might be something we can use."

"I'll go get something now," she said. Before he could protest, he heard the door open and close.

Several minutes passed, with him kicking himself for not immediately running after her. She was wearing nothing but the bed sheets, and she'd be alone with the creep at the front desk. But fear kept him frozen, mingled with dread.

He heard the door open again, and Evelyn entered, breathless from running. "Jeff, I have pliers… and some ice cubes for the swelling. Can you come out?"

Leaning against the door, he forced himself to turn around and open it. She looked comical, standing on the other side in a makeshift toga, dragging a pair of pliers in one hand with her other arm curled around a small metal ice bucket, but he was in no mood to laugh.

"Come and sit down over here," she said, gesturing to a chair.

He did as she commanded, though the pain in his hand slowed him down. From there she issued instructions—raise your arm and apply ice to reduce the swelling, see if it loosens. And if that doesn't work, we'll try to break it with the pliers.

As the blood flowed out of his arm, his mind started to wander. "Why you?" he mumbled. "Why me?"

She paused, letting the pliers drop to the floor beside her. "What do you mean?"

"Everything that's happened has been about something," he said. "It's all symbolic of things that used to mean something to us."

"We're being tormented," she replied. "Just like with everything else that's happened. It's meant to make us despair, make us lay down and give up, stop fighting."

"How do I know you're not here just to torment me?" he muttered darkly.

"I know I'm not here just because of you." She looked him in the eye. "It's the summer of 1978, right? I was a stupid seventeen year old girl with a head full of funny ideas about man and God and love."

He returned her gaze with the knifelike intensity only a murderer could possess. Prove it, he seemed to challenge. Prove that you're a real person and not some figment of my fevered imagination.

She heaved a sigh, covered her face with her hands, and then swallowed the lump in her throat before she spoke again.

"Christopher was my boyfriend back in high school. I was crazy about him. But there was this complicated thing going on in his family, and his father wanted him to come and live with him in Chicago… Meanwhile I was in Virginia." She rubbed her forehead, as though struggling to jog her memory. "And while he was gone, I found out I was pregnant. My mother told my father, and they started pressuring me—saying I couldn't stay with them if I had a baby. I couldn't go to college if I had a kid to look after. I didn't have Christopher's number, just his address. He must have forgotten to call me, things were just so crazy, and it seemed to prove my parents' suspicions right. They said he was irresponsible, he couldn't handle being a father, that it wasn't going to work…"

Jeff stared at her, his expression blank. He couldn't exactly feel empathy or sympathy for her, but he could guess where her story was going. Even though he didn't say a word or convey a single emotion, her own feelings were enough that she had to shut her eyes against them.

"I shouldn't have let them convince me to end the pregnancy. I should have gotten in my car and driven to Chicago on my own, did what I had to do to reach him. But I didn't know back then what I know now. I was insecure, and we were just a couple of kids… but I'm sure it could have worked if I'd given it a chance. He married me even after I told him what I did…" Sniffing, she opened her eyes again and looked at him. "There's your answer."

He hesitated, a horrific thought occurring to him. "Back at the construction site," he murmured. "When Jim cut you open and pulled something out…"

The tortured look on her face made him wish he hadn't brought it up. "I hope to God that what you're thinking isn't true. I don't think it is, because I wasn't more than a couple months along when… But I don't know what to think anymore."

She took hold of his wrist, pulling away the ice so she could look at his finger. Picking up the pliers with her other hand, she closed them around the ring—

"Fuck," he gasped. He bit down on the knuckle of his other hand, trying to stifle himself as she pulled and pinched the gold band. But no amount of pressure was enough to get it past the notched bone.

She released the pliers, her face drawn and pale. His finger was turning black.

"I don't know what to do," she panted. "If this was the real world, I'd have already taken you to the hospital. God, I'm afraid you're going to lose your finger, but—is that even possible at this point? Or will you just carry it around like that, the flesh rotting without ever falling off?"

Jeff couldn't respond. His entire arm was sore from her yanking with the pliers. He'd lost all feeling in his hand.

"Do you want to put ice on it again?" she asked. "If only for the pain?"

He shook his head. "It doesn't hurt much anymore."

"This is my fault. It's my ring, it has to be because of me. Jeff, I'm so sorry…"

He was reminded of something the voice had said. You may not have failed her, but she will fail you. But what had she done? She was unable to remove a ring that was so embedded, it had literally split his knuckle bone in two. How was that a failure on her part?

"Think, Evie," he said. "What does this mean to you? What does it symbolize?"

"It's my wedding ring." She shrugged her shoulders. "It means marriage, love, romance…?"

"And if that symbol was forced onto my finger, what does that mean?"

After a few moments of thought, her shoulders climbed and her expression contorted with disgust and humiliation. She looked like she wanted to crawl away and die.

"Jim already made it clear back at the construction site," he said, unable to hide his shudder. "I know how you feel about me."

"I'm not like you," she snapped. "I can control myself. Whatever I feel doesn't matter."

"Most people are not like me," he retorted. "How does that make you special?"

It was stupid, what he was saying. He knew it. But something was welling up inside him now, something threatening to rear its ugly head, and he needed to delay it for as long as possible. At least give her a chance to reconsider.

"It doesn't make me special," she insisted. "Unrequited love is something everyone has to deal with. I'm not going to hurt you or force you to do anything you don't want to do. I want to help you. I don't want this!"

"You want to help me," he echoed under his breath, flexing his numb fingers. Again, he pictured the scar along her stomach and felt a flash of heat. The urge was growing more and more powerful. He was terrified of what might happen if he gave in.

There was a cruel irony to the situation that wasn't lost on him. Lionel had said he wanted to send him to therapy or a conversion camp, all in the hopes of giving his son a chance at a "normal" life. He didn't understand the real problem. He saw only the surface-level vice, not the monstrous, violent underpinning that would do the most harm, wreak the most destruction.

But now here he was, feeling some of that normalcy Lionel had hoped and prayed for. And it was still hopelessly, bitterly wrong. A corrupt perversion. A violation of the worst kind.

"You're sweating," she said worriedly. "Are you feverish again?"

"I'm in trouble," he whispered.

Something flickered in her eyes, and he realized she wasn't as oblivious as he wished she was.

"I am too," she said softly. "There was no one at the front desk when I got there, and I was thinking about you… It was like someone was prodding me, touching me, trying to make me…" She stopped and took a deep breath. "I feel like a puppet. Like I'm losing control of my body. Is that how you feel?"

His silence confirmed it.

"Is it making you want to kill me?"

He shook his head.

Her voice became still softer. "Does it make you want to kiss me?"

She will fail you.

He turned his face away from her. His breathing quickened as he wrestled with himself. But he was Jeff Dahmer, a man who had lost every battle with lust so painfully, he'd left a trail of mangled, cannibalized bodies in his wake. He didn't stand a chance.

She knelt in front of him. Without his glasses, her face seemed hazy and indistinct up close. But he felt her hands on his knees, her fingers clutching feebly, her nails pressing through the denim of his jeans. The sheet she'd wound around her body was coming undone, slipping free and sliding down to her elbows, thin white fabric bunching up at her waist…

He shut his eyes instinctively. He'd only ever seen female nudity in movies, observing it with the same detached perspective he viewed the patterns in linoleum. But now he was afraid. It was the same terror he'd felt waking up in a stranger's house, his limbs tied, his body violated. The same terror he'd inflicted on countless others in random, drugged encounters, the feeling of being used and discarded. Raped and freezing.

With his eyes closed, he heard her choke back a sob. The sound was muffled; her head was bowed. With his one intact hand he undid his belt, unwound it from around his waist. Slowly he leaned forward, waiting until she raised her head, and then wrapped his belt around her neck.

She gasped, her fingers clutching at the strip of faux leather constricting her throat.

"You can't die twice," he told her, tightening the belt.

She jerked her body to the side, trying to get away from him, and fell on the cheap, dirty carpet. He fell on top of her, pinning her down, pulling the belt. He didn't want to hurt her, but if this was what it took to be free, he would do what had to be done. The helplessness, the powerlessness, all would be gone if he got rid of the source of the problem…

Her hands were reaching for him. He tried not to look at her, but he could hear her choking and feel her fingers clutching at him. Suddenly he was back in the ditch, surrounded by shadows, Jim laughing in his ear and Evelyn trembling beneath him. Or was he in an apartment in Milwaukee, strangling a man in the dark while his flailing limbs savaged the altar he had built to his gods of selfishness and carnality?

His grip went slack. He yanked the belt over her head while she gasped for breath, then pressed his mouth to hers, breathing for her until she could do it on her own again.

He finally pulled away, his knees wobbling. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm scared."

Leaning forward, she kissed him. It was a chaste kiss on his forehead. For a moment he dared to hope. But it was followed by a kiss against his fluttering eyelid, then along his jaw and trailing down to his neck. He never felt her tongue or her teeth, just her lips ghosting over his skin with all the reverence of one for whom sexuality had been a gift, an expression of love, a sacred act—everything but what it had been for him.

His breath hitched. His mind was a prison and his flesh was betraying him. He didn't want her, not as he had wanted the men he had murdered for his lust, but some part of him craved the emotional intimacy she promised. He knew her—she wasn't some stranger he'd picked up in a bar. There were snatches of his old sexuality amid this new mire. A desire to merge, to absorb, to be engulfed in bodily warmth and bury himself inside it. But any sense of paranoid urgency or need for control had been submerged, content with the knowledge that satisfaction would arrive soon enough. He had no actual drive; he was just along for the ride. A marionette with its strings cut.

Because he hadn't understood the goal of this monstrous game after all. It wasn't about him. It was about her. What she would fall for, what she would do if given the opportunity. She knew what she was doing. She understood right from wrong. But like the rest of her species, she tended to do what she wanted anyway, regardless of the consequences. Such was the human condition. Such was their fate, on the floor of a shady motel room, while his ring finger slowly turned black, death and rot setting in.

One hand slid between his legs, teasing him. He wished she would go faster. He wanted to get it over with. If only Jim had thought to bring her wedding ring into the game, perhaps he would have won back there at the construction site.

"I'm so sorry…" He could hear the weakness and shame in her voice.

He realized then that she had lost control just as surely as he had in life, stumbling and falling into the trap of her own desires. It was strange to think that she could be anything like him. Her longings were different, but they were just as difficult to suppress and bury, especially when she was given all the power to fulfill them by force.

"It's okay," he whispered, his voice unsteady from the actions of her hand. "I trust you."

He had to hold out hope that she wouldn't fail this test, that she would find the will to stop herself. Because if she didn't…

Gently she nudged him, getting him to lie on his back. His right hand traced the scar over her belly. She pressed it against him, provoking a gasp.

"I trust you…" he repeated, pleading for intervention, for relief, for escape.

Her legs were a cage around him. There was a glassy sheen to her eyes. He touched her face, holding it between his hands, and felt hot tears prick against his thumbs.

She grasped his left wrist. He watched her lips pucker around his swollen ring finger as she guided it into her mouth, shut her eyes, and bit down.

The agony was instant, shooting up his arm and threatening to rip him apart. His mind shut down, distancing himself from the pain until he felt like he was detached from his body, floating above it all. He saw her spit the gold band into her palm, saliva tinged with his blood trickling from her lips. Then he must have fainted, because in the next moment she was lying next to him, admiring the ring around her finger in the morning light.

He held up his own hand. There was no sign of blood, no wound, no swelling, no broken bones. It was all healed, as if nothing had happened.

He turned to look at her. "Was it good for you too?"

She glared at him. "That was a terrible joke." But the corners of her mouth were twitching. "I remember where Christopher lives."

A/N: Ugh.

First off: why the hell did I write this? Best answer I can give is that quarantine takes the mind to weird, dark places. This started out as a deleted scene I found languishing on my computer and thought I could polish up and post just for old time's sake, but it rapidly snowballed into a hodgepodge of various ideas I had for CL early on, but got rid of because they would have weighed the story down with unnecessary side plots. Most of it involves Evelyn's past and characterization, as you can see. Abortion! Regret! Shame! Unrequited love! Nobody cares about that stuff. If you're here, it's to read my flawlessly authentic portrayal of Jeffrey Dahmer, not some half-baked OC.

Do I feel embarrassed for having written this?... Meh, a little I guess. But I finally got it all off my chest, and I can blow this popsicle stand and never visit this site again. That's right - this is the last fanfic I will ever write. If I post another one after this, assume that I have been replaced by an impostor or am being forced to write at gunpoint.