There is something particularly awkward when you are talking to someone who is talking about you but doesn't know that she's talking about you, while you do know that she's talking about you.
"My god, Dex, look at this! It's incredible!"
It is especially awkward when she is your sister talking about your treasure trove of dismembered bodies under the charming moniker of "the Bay Harbor Butcher."
"I'm kind of busy, Deb. Writing a report."
She's not about to let it go, though. "Come on, just for a second. I wanna hear what you think. I swear this guy is sick."
"Like a mad dog," I drawled. Dearly demented Dexter. Your favorite brother is a sick, sick man who eats killers for lunch. "All right, all right. Just for a second."
I slid my chair over to her computer, looking over her shoulder. In full, brilliant color, I'm looking at a map of my trench, a map of my kills. It's like Sesame Street. How many dead bodies, kids? One, two, three… "Okay, what am I supposed to be looking at?"
"No, not this…" Deb started to click through windows: mug shots, autopsy photos… "Ah," she said brightly. "Here…"
I leaned forward and stared at the page. "Profile? Already? I thought they still didn't know how many bodies there were."
"They don't," Deb said excitedly, practically glowing. Like a blushing bride, my sister. "But estimates are over thirty. Over thirty, Dex! And this Lundy guy, he's incredible, look at this…blah blah blah white male, blah blah blah emotionally isolated, but here – medical or anatomical knowledge, methodical, obsessive…sounds like you, Dex." She laughed.
"Ha, ha, ha," I said. "Sounds pretty typical to me. Standard serial killer material. Is that all?" Debra seemed oblivious to my discomfort. Unfortunately.
"No no no, look at this." Another click of the mouse. "We have an ID on another victim. Guess who it is."
"I have no idea, Debra. I have work to do."
"Jorge fucking Castillo," Debra said, ignoring me entirely. "Remember? The one who offed his wife? Looks like someone caught up with him. Do you think it's a family member? Freaky shit, I'm telling you, we were looking for this guy…guess the Butcher found him first."
I wish they'd choose another nickname.
"Morgan!" We both looked up, but it's me Doakes is yelling at. "Where's that bloodwork?"
"Probably him," I murmured to Debra, and she snorted.
"Get a move on!" The good sergeant yelled, and I ruffled Deb's hair because I knew she'd hate it. She grinned anyway.
"We'll catch this bastard," she said brightly. "We'll get him."
I forced myself to laugh. "Yeah, Deb. You'll get him." Me. Doomed disturbed Dexter. I can't wait to see my foster-sister's face when super special Special Agent Lundy claps her big brother in irons.
Harry would be so disappointed.
What was I thinking? I slipped back into my sanctuary. It's not over yet. Agent Lundy is probably pretty good. But not as good as I am. Especially since I have more to lose.