Prologue: Seal Our Fate
Innocence is our natural state. We're all innocent first before we become the people we are. Monsters or saints; cops or killers; leaders or followers. Some keep their innocence longer, but everyone loses it eventually. The horrors of the world can't be kept at bay forever. I've tried to shield Deb from the horror of her world-namely, me-but I've failed her and I've failed Harry. She's like me now, born in blood, lost and unsure. The willful taking of life has inevitably lead to the sacrifice of innocence.
For a long time, she doesn't speak or even bother to glance in my direction. Harrison's slight snores fill in the empty space between us, creating a thick atmosphere that's heavy with and lacking in innocence. My thoughts race around in circles. Does love do nothing aside from destroy the people it touches?
I've spent my entire life running from this and now, it's right beside me in the form of my little sister, a newly minted killer of an innocent. Suddenly, I can hardly breathe, so I keep my eyes on the road, watching the streetlights blur by in a yellow haze.
Deb must notice the tension because she shoots me a look that resembles something I'd give to one of my victims just before I kill them: an inane combination of pity and disappointment. My eyes fall to the standard issue firearm that sits atop her trembling legs.
What have I done?
"Dex?" Her voice is small like a child's, fragile with innocence. It makes my chest tighten.
I don't turn my head to address her. I don't have the strength. I'm totally and utterly powerless for the first time since…my memory flashes with the sound of a baby's cry and crimson stained porcelain. Rita drowned in her own blood. I suck in a brutal breath, forcing the images away.
"Yeah?" I sound weaker in this one moment then I ever have.
"This isn't…This isn't your fault."
I laugh at her. "Yes, it is, Deb. It is and I'm sorry." Now, I do look at her. Her blue green eyes are haunted, trapped somewhere far off. She's not here with me. Not really, anyway.
"I really am." Something inside me coils, clenches and releases. It's something undefined. In deviously demented Dexter's world, it doesn't yet have a name. Is that long overdue guilt finally catching up with me?
My little sister tilts her head to the side, blatantly dissatisfied. "Stop saying that." The words are clipped and sure. She doesn't want me to blame myself for what she's become.
"Why?"
"Because it doesn't fucking change anything, Dexter." She hisses back at me, careful to keep her tone down. It's still laced with venom.
I recoil instantly. Anger, the first real emotion she's given me since we left Batista's party. I guess I should have expected it. I wonder why I didn't.
I stand beside her, holding Harrison tight against my shoulder while she unlocks the front door. The murder weapon was flung into the glove compartment but the ghost of it still makes her hands shake. Even in the hazy moonlight, I can see her uncertainty, how intensely affected she is by a silent dark passenger that's pooling beneath her skin.
A surge of helplessness slices through me. What can I do to vanquish Deb's darkness? She finally gets the door open and I follow behind her, ready for absolutely nothing. Her stance is rigid, her footsteps stutter and her fingers are clenching into and out of fists.
"You can put him up in the bedroom." She says without turning around.
I do what she tells me, sidestepping her to push into the bedroom. Gently, I put Harrison down and pull the covers over him. His breaths are soothing and for a moment, all I do is stare at him. The only good thing I've ever done; the only innocence left to preserve. I kiss him on the forehead.
"We love you, buddy. And, we'll be here no matter what."
The words give me pause. I don't know what possessed me to say them. I don't remember when I became we. It should be unnerving, shouldn't it?
In a daze, I return to the living room to find Deb sitting on the couch with her head buried in her hands. She's always been so human, feeling everything to the nth degree. I can't even fathom what this is doing to her. She's become the one thing she never wanted to be, the one thing I never wanted her to be. I close my eyes tight in response to the ache. I know I should do something, but I'm frozen. What can I even say? She won't take very kindly to a thank you, that much I'm sure of.
For a stretch of time, there's a thick silence that expands in the ocean between us and fills the room with tangible doubt. I fidget and debate, but in the end, it's the human side that claims victory.
I take the necessary steps and fall to my knees before her. Debra, the only person in the world who still loves me despite the evil I've committed in the name of a code. I've hurt her more than anybody else and still, she fights for me; kills for me. Her innocence has been stolen, she's lost and hopeless, and the love she has for me is the reason.
Yet, here she is, raising her head to fix me with a teary eyed gaze. I stare back at her, unafraid of the fractured soul that's laid bare to me. It tells me a story that I know too well. After all, it's my story, too. She'd do anything for me, I'm sure of that now. And the fact is that I'd do anything for her, just to say I still have her. She's the last person who owns me so completely. I smile at her, melancholic, and collapse forward into her arms, burying my face in her neck and feeling the tight press of her knees against my ribs.
Her fingers immediately find a home at the back of my head, where they stroke through my hair. One of those fingers squeezed the trigger. A shiver quakes across my spine.
"I'm sorry." I say it again because it's all I can do. I've never been so sorry.
Stinging tears cling to the edges of my vision and put me right back in that container. Deb haloed angelic in streetlight, delivering the killing blow to Maria LaGuerta. I remember the way I had to catch Deb in my arms before she could contaminate the body. I held her close and let her cry herself out against me. She threw a few punches that left a pain that still lingers. I don't mind; I deserve so much more than that.
"Deb." I breathe in shakily. "I love you."
A tear falls of its own accord and I look up at her, just so she can see the proof of my anguish. She cups my face with both hands the way Rita used to and dutifully wipes the tear away with the pad of her thumb.
"I love you, too, Dex."
I flash a small, desperate grin. "No one loves me like you do."
Debra's face splits wide. "No." she agrees, shaking her head. "No."
I settle back into her arms, listening to her heartbeat and basking in her gentle touch. Her warmth reassures me, keeps me grounded right here beside her, never more certain of what she means to me.
I think about Brian; about how difficult it was to take his life. My real brother, my blood, the only family I had left in the world. I killed him to save my fake sister, the one person I'd give anything for, no questions asked.
I exhale into the skin above her heart. "I killed him." I'm whispering, hopelessly afraid of shattering our tenuous peace.
"Who?" Deb's calm; she no longer fears the answers.
"Brian. It wasn't a suicide. It was me."
"Why?"
Our eyes lock and I feel peaceful, free even. "I did it to protect you." I've kept this from her for so long. There's something fulfilling about letting it out. An animal sprung from a battered cage.
"Don't you get it, Deb? He wanted me to kill you and leave with him. He could've fully understood and accepted me and I slit his throat to keep you safe."
She gnaws on her bottom lip. "He told you who he was?"
"He did. He wanted to set me free."
"From what?"
A heavy sigh burns past my teeth. "From you and Harry."
"And, you chose me." Her eyes glisten and my heart stutters. Debra.
"No one matters more than you, Deb." It's frightening how sure I am. She's all I want, all I can't live without. She keeps me real.
"Not even Hannah?"
"Not even Hannah."
That makes her smile. Hasn't she known that all along?
"Okay, I believe you."
"It's the only thing I know for sure." I place a kiss on her forehead. "No one's above you."
The next morning arrives without a hitch. The world around us still spins even if we'll never be the same. Somehow, that's comforting. And so is the slow thrum of Deb's heartbeat beneath my cheek. I'm stretched out beside her on the couch and her arms are tight around me, cradling me close. I'm safe here, undeniably. Cautious, I stroke my palm over the warm skin at Deb's shoulder, marveling that she's here, that she really isn't going anywhere.
Something unfathomable swells to life in my chest: a love so dizzying that the Need is a dull roar in comparison. Debra, Debra, Debra, she's all there is. She fills me up and makes me whole. Completely and utterly human.
"Dexter." Her fingers stroke over the crown of my head for a second before she kisses me there, feather light.
"Yeah?"
She hugs me to her and sighs. "I really need to take a shower. And you need to take Harrison home. We have to go to work soon."
Her breath catches noticeably at the word work. I swallow hard.
"All right." I say as I move up and away from her. She smiles up at me and I watch while she rises to her feet, unsteady. Soon enough, reality is going to hit us like a mac truck and I need to be there to protect her at any cost necessary.
The reporters are already crowding around by the time Angel arrives on scene. It's a blood sport, a gaggle of sharks in open water, and it disgusts Angel to no end. This isn't a game; it's his ex-wife's body in that shipping container.
As he makes his way through the throng of scandalmongers, he catches the sound of Deb's voice echoing from within. He ducks below the police line and takes long strides to the container. No amount of mental preparation could be enough for this. When the body comes into view, Angel nearly folds in on himself. Maria's slumped against the side of the container, dressed in bright pink and bloodstained purple. Her badge still hangs around her neck, glinting gold in the early morning light and bile gathers in the back of Angel's throat. The strongest woman he'd ever known reduced to an empty vessel.
"Angel." Deb's warm touch to his forearm startles him back to the outside world. He shifts his gaze to her with enormous effort.
"If you don't want to…you can stay outside or go back to the station."
He shakes his head vehemently. "No. I want to be here." It's not a request. Deb's eyes search his for a long moment and he sees the pain he's feeling reflected back at him.
"Okay, Angel."
It's then he finally notices Dexter and Masuka kneeled beside another body on the opposite side of the container.
"Who's that?"
"Hector Estrada."
Dexter cuts in. "There doesn't appear to have been a struggle. It was a standoff. He shot first and she let off a shot of her own as she was falling backward. His bullet pierced the chest cavity and hers severed the aorta. He died immediately; she bled out in a matter of minutes." His tone is all business, but Angel can see the uneasiness present in his posture.
Deb is fidgeting, too and Angel takes careful note of the look that passes between her and her brother.
"All right, Dex. You have anything to add, Masuka?"
"No, Lieutenant. It seems pretty cut and dry. We'll see what the ME has to say."
Deb nods with resolve. "I'd like this case to be closed as soon as possible. It's too hard on all of us."
Angel sees the tears in her eyes and feels his vision begin to swim. He can't be here anymore.
"I'll see you all back at the station."
Quinn shows up at the station an hour and a half after his shift was supposed to start. It doesn't even seem to matter, though, because the station is full of people who seem to be sleepwalking. What the hell happened? He gets off the elevator and takes brisk, echoing steps toward Angel's desk. The older man doesn't acknowledge his presence.
"Batista."
The Sergeant finally notices him; his eyes are hollow. Quinn feels black dread pool in his belly.
"What the fuck happened?"
"Captain LaGuerta was murdered last night."
There's a stuttering pulse at Quinn's temple. "For real?"
Angel can only nod.
"Quinn!" Deb, sounding angrier than he's ever witnessed. Uh oh. "Get in here!"
"Coming, LT." His head is pounding from all the champagne last night. The thought of confronting his quick tempered Lieutenant is making him want to throw himself out the nearest window before he can enter her office.
Despite that, he reestablishes his natural swagger on the short journey. She doesn't look amused. If it's possible, she looks even worse than Angel. There are dark bags under her eyes and her pallor is sickly. Quinn's sure that it's more than just LaGuerta's death bothering her.
"What is it, boss?"
Deb fixes him with a glare. "Don't give me that shit. Where have you been?"
He leans against the open door and plasters on a half sober smile. "I overslept. I had one too many glasses of champagne."
"Goddamnit, Quinn. Our Captain is dead and you can't even muster up the decency to give a shit."
She's sharp and her tone is tinged with disappointment. He can't stand disappointing her; it makes him feel like scum.
"Of course I fucking give a shit. God, Deb, I wasn't expecting to wake up to the fucking apocalypse."
"Regardless, you've been a liability for a while now. I'm putting you on disciplinary leave until you can manage to get your act together."
"Deb…"
"You're going into the program and you are going to go to your court ordered therapy for the shooting at the Fox Hole. I've already spoken with your Union rep."
Her eyes take on a steely quality, resembling solid emeralds. "I'm also going to need your badge and your gun."
He stares her down, trying not to give into his temperamental impulse. The click of his badge, the thud of his gun, the fire in Deb's eyes are all contributing to the blaze inside him. How dare her. He drives the toe of his boot into the front of her desk, feeling like a misbehaving child before his mother. Except that disappointing his mother never felt like this.
He watches Deb's fingers enclose around his effects and sees spots in his vision. Every fuck up was leading to this.
"That's all, Detective Quinn."
The crash of shattering glass breaks the silence that hangs over the parking garage. She pulls the lock up, wrenching open the door with the opposite hand. It's a bright cherry red BMW that glints metallic even in the moonlight; the man who owns it likes to hunt and Hannah swipes the knife from the glove box. An eight inch serrated blade, mouthwatering in its beauty. It's been a long time since she's used a knife, but she remembers the pleasure, the feeling of control, like holding death in your hands. She remembers the blood, too, an ocean of it staining a beige carpet in a dingy motel. Shaking her head clear, she emerges from the coupe, stashing the sheathed knife in her waist band and heading away in the opposite direction. She pulls her hood up and over her head to partially cover her face, knowing that at any moment, it could be plastered across every newspaper in the state. It's a quiet night, but not for long.
I don't return to the station after the crime scene in the ship yard; our crime scene. Nothing makes sense anymore. I've always been so independent and now, I have to fend for two. My little sister, my guardian, my protector. I wonder how the press conference went, but I don't think I want to know. Deb can only feign the appearance of a grieving coworker for so long before the guilt starts to show. How long can I keep her safe? Eventually, somebody somewhere is going to figure out why LaGuerta and Estrada are dead together. That they both connect back to me…connect back to us.
And I used to be such a neat monster.
Debra doesn't sleep that night. She just stares up at the ceiling, watching shadows dance. Outside, there's the sound of the ocean waves crashing onto shore. Deb focuses on that and takes a deep breath the way her therapist taught her. It works actually. Her body relaxes, but her brain is going too fast. From within the blackness of her thoughts, a gunshot echoes. It was the last sound Maria LaGuerta ever heard. Deb's face the last face she ever saw. Deb's betrayal the last betrayal she'll ever witness.
Deb squeezes her eyes shut. A betrayer: that's what she is now. That's all she'll ever be.
At the local cop bar, Angel Batista downs shot after shot after shot, desperate to rid himself of the image. Maria's eyes, glazed over with lifelessness. He recalls the shine they used to possess, the way they would sparkle in the sunlight. The glow of her smile when he called her beautiful; the glossy strands of her hair between his fingers. Somehow, the love is still there. It's burrowed in his guts, takes absolute precedence in his heart. She hurt him more times than he can count, but he's a forgiving man.
With a sad smile, he pours another shot of Cuervo Black.
As he brings it to his lips he murmurs,
"Goodbye, Maria."
Hannah used to speak of Argentina. For her, it was about wiping the slate clean, about shedding appearances, about being free. The more I contemplate on it, the more I find that old habits are hard to shake. Argentina won't change what we are or who we are. Nobody can be saved from themselves. You can't outrun what haunts you. The wicked can't be free. Evil can't be contained.