When I tracked Dexter down, he was eighteen, playing basketball in the Morgans' driveway. I caught the ball, tossed it back to him with a grin.
"Here."
He caught it, looked at me. And then he smiled back and I held my breath, waiting. Of course it's been a while - years. And he's not expecting me. It will take a minute to -
"Hey, Dex! Ball!"
And he shrugs, friendly blank smile not shifting at all. "Thanks." And he turns back to his fake sister and false home. He didn't recognize me at all.
I wanted to slam his head into the concrete, cave his skull in for walking away. But I don't want to hurt Dexter. He's my brother, my brother, and so I found my car and drove away with shaking hands.
I've kept tabs, decided it was time to try again. I might have been wrong. Dexter lives in a one-bedroom waterfront apartment. He works for the police department, and takes donuts to work. He has a fishing boat. And a bowling league. I'm stalking the least interesting man on the planet in a bowling alley parking lot. Maybe it's time to stop torturing myself with this idea of brother, family, connection. Dexter Moser was my brother. Maybe Dexter Morgan is something else entirely. Does our shared blood matter to anyone but me?
Maybe it's time to amputate. Maybe I should do it with a chainsaw. Maybe he'll remember me when I start cutting him up.
Maybe I should pay attention. I almost miss Dexter turning the wrong way out of the parking lot.
Dexter finally comes back, without his duffel bag; walks towards his car half a block away. At the last second, I decide to let my baby brother loose and check the house. Drug den? Bored housewife? So many tedious possibilities, and I don't have much hope for Dexter anymore. Until I see what he's done to the garage.
It's floor-to-ceiling-joist plastic sheets. I let myself in: operating table, also plastic-wrapped. Clip lights. A travel kit of knives on a draped workbench. It looks like a kidney theft ring without the bathtub. But that's not it. My boring little brother with his fake family and fishing boat and fucking bowling league... I'm standing in his kill room.
There's a row of photographs taped high on the plastic wall. Dead people. Three of them, shot in a living room. I'm not very impressed. No-one who could do this would be impressed by that scene. This room is immaculate. When I've killed - to get someone out of my way, when things went a little to far - I killed where it was convenient, disposed where it was convenient, and left. Living-room murders, I admit. This is... a hobby?
Mom, I think Dexter's a serial killer.
And what happens here, exactly? He'll bring his victim here, kill them, cut them up - maybe the reverse. Then - pop the bubble, wrap up the body and the blood and make it all disappear. And slip back into his fake, pathetic, normal life, until he needs a new bloody bubble to breathe in.
This room is a tragedy. A cry for help from a drowning man. Damaged, disassociated Dexter.
I want to stay to meet Dexter and whoever he's bringing home, but that's as bad as just walking up to his house and expecting the best. I see now that could never have worked. Dexter needs to remember who he was. Who I am. I'll have to prove I understand who he ~is. And then I can help him.
Before I drive away again, I slice my finger on one of Dexter's knives, leaving a thin line of red. Reminder, promise. I'll be back soon, little brother.
