Esmé was thinking of the night before. How can I do that, she asked herself, when Cody and Lou are in such danger? But somehow her thoughts kept on drifting back to the three of them in bed, to two male bodies arched in orgasm over her, to the pleasure she had felt as they brought her to climax. More than that—she thought of how she was loved and protected by them, of how the pain and humiliation of her rape by her oh-so-macho father had faded, and how for the first time she felt safe. She looked at the scars on her wrists, where for years she had cut herself again and again, the sharp pain of the incisions better than the pain in her heart. I won’t need to do that again, she thought, a wash of contentment filling her. And then she was reminded that somewhere on the road ahead of them, Luigi and Cody were in terror and would perhaps die, and she felt a vast sorrow fill her, replacing her contentment. So much suffering! And just because hers might be over, it didn’t mean that it would stop in the world. It would go on.
And for the first time, she wondered what hell had turned the Killer into the psychopath he was. Had he been born with his kink? Or had he, like her, been tortured by some older man until the only way to alleviate his pain was to kill others? Well, she only cut herself. But he had killed others, again and again. And she wondered, as the countryside flashed past, whether if she had a gun she would be able to pull the trigger to kill him, and whether if she thought of him as her father it would make it easier or harder.