"What did I just do? I drove away a brother who accepts me, sees me, for an adopted sister who'd reject me if she knew and a foster father who betrayed me." – Dexter, Episode 12: Born Free

Appetite

"Your sister has seen a glimpse of what you really are now. It's only a matter of time before she puts all of the pieces together. What's your plan, Dexter?"

I look up to see Harry, my foster father, standing in my kitchen, with his arms crossed. His stern gaze makes me feel small again like a young killer-in-training fumbling with a dull knife over the next-door neighbor's dog.

"First, I will help her solve this case like she asked," I reply, indignation rising. Where was Harry when Darling Debra discovered my dark deed in the old abandoned church? The Code hadn't prepared me for this. Every rule revolved around the first: don't get caught. No exceptions. But how could I silence Miami Metro's Homicide Lieutenant without doing to her what I do best? Which was, of course, out of the question. "Then, I'll have to figure something out, I guess."

"Well, you better think quickly, son, because the clock is ticking. You and I both know she will be watching your every move," Harry warns. "Your urge to hunt and satisfy your hunger will only grow stronger, but you can't risk her catching you again."

"I have plenty of time," I point out. "I only just killed Travis."

"But you didn't finish your ritual, and the ritual is everything for you."

The dark wings rub together and flutter inside my chest. He's right. Although we enjoyed our hunt and relished our kill, we never truly got to savor our meal. Deb had interrupted me just as we were getting started. Her presence had inexplicably replaced my sinister supper companion with an uncomfortable, sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach—a feeling that was entirely foreign to the deep, dark, empty void that is Dexter Morgan. In fact, my Dark Passenger stayed away even after she left. Poor Deserted Dexter had to doctor a crime scene all by himself like he had been stood up on a moonlit dinner date.

I shake my head recalling my foster's sister curious expression last night. Harry was right. She had caught a glimpse of me. But she hadn't outright rejected me yet; in fact, she had asked for my help. "Deb didn't arrest me. What makes you think she'll change her mind?"

Harry's dark eyes soften pityingly. "She's only human, Dexter." The meaning is implicit: she is only what I am not. He frowns and sighs, resigned to explaining human nature to me at a third grade level. "Your dark secret is an enormous burden to take on, and it's a lot to ask of her without giving her anything in return. I myself wasn't strong enough to shoulder it."

I metaphorically chew on his words for a few moments, but they taste rather...tasteless to a sociopath. My stomach rumbles, and I realize I'd much rather bite into a real-life banana, my favorite on-the-go morning snack. Unlike the ghost of Harry, I've actually got bills to pay.

In spite of recent events, today starts out like an ordinary day. I waltz into Miami Metro with a box of delectable, blood clot-inducing doughnuts, and my colleagues swarm to me like crack addicts jonesing for their sugary fix. I enable them with a harmless, toothy grin. Never fear, I assure them. Dexter the Dealer is here to stay.

I don't let Harry's words of caution weigh me down. In fact, I strideinto my office with a spring in my step. If the preverbal clock is ticking, I might as well savor my freedom. Today, I am just pleased to plop down into my office chair, and not Old Sparky. But in that moment, I am still naïve. I still can't comprehend my lucky fate: why exactly Deb saw what she saw and still let me go free.

Then, the sky comes crashing down as if to answer my unasked question. Masuka drops a stack of photos in front of me. I confidently, ignorantly slide them out.

"I'm not sure why the hot Morgan wants me to give you these since there's no blood," Masuka says, with a hint of suspicion, "but here you go anyway. I sent a tissue sample to the lab yesterday so we should get an ID soon..."

I nod dumbly as Masuka exits stage left. I had stopped listening halfway through our conversation, as soon as my eyes and ears made sense of what we were truly beholding. No blood. Those two little words had only helped to derail my already unhinged brain.

Alone now, I spread out the photos for a clearer picture. My Dark Passenger and I whole-heartedly admire what we see: precise, clean, beautiful cuts, arranged with equal amounts of detached irony and careful skill. It's the work of a true artist, one who's not afraid to be seen.

It's the work of my brother, Brian Moser.

I swallow. My eyes scan over the note Masuka has also documented: It's high time for a family feast. A sudden wave of giddiness spreads through me. I take a deep, steadying breath, and attempt to recover a semblance of logical thought because Dexter the Unflappable never succumbs to hysterics.

My brother is dead. He's as dead as Harry. I of all people should be confident in his demise; he died by my hand, after all. His ghostly self even recently accompanied me on a road trip.

So this killer isn't Brian... He's just a fellow traveler and a fan boy. Are we disappointed or relieved?

I reread the note: It's high time for a family feast. I frown. The time for Brian and I to bond, as adults, certainly hadn't lasted long. He was a little too preoccupied with killing Deb for my taste, which was unfortunate because Brian fully supported my extracurricular activities. Will Deb ever truly understand me like my brother? If her gag-reflex the other evening was any indication, it's highly doubtful.

A cold chuckle suddenly interrupts my train of thought because my Dark Passenger has just realized the obvious. How many other serial killer families live in Miami? Our new friend doesn't just admire my brother; he's also paying homage to me. How flattering.

I might even blush if not for the sheer impossibility of the idea. First, no one alive knows the Ice Truck Killer's relation to the Bay Harbor Butcher except me. Second, I can't afford to play games even if someone did. Last night, I made a promise to my dear foster sister. I vowed to help her dispose of this monster, and I can only assume she means sans plastic wrap and kill tools.

Lieutenant Debra Morgan debriefs the team with an admirable level of evenness considering the circumstances. Chin up, in a somewhat forced, yet steady, voice, she explains how the case mirrors her ex-fiancé's MO amidst her co-workers who are well aware of her romantic past and her foster brother who likewise dismembers bodies in his spare time. I think it helps that she pointedly ignores my presence.

"This is a high priority because if his MO matches ITKs, it means he likely plans to kill again. So let's catch this mother fucker before he gets another shot," Deb concludes with her signature, expletive flourish.

I follow the herd as the room begins to clear out, but Deb reels me in before I can slip away. She summons Masuka too.

"Masuka, I want Dex to take the role of lead forensics investigator on this case," she informs us, to both of our surprise.

Masuka nods deferentially, but his mouth tightens into a thin line. He looks visibly stung, and I can't blame him. "Deb, I can try to help out, but there's no blood. This is really more Vince's territory," I protest, defending the shiny-headed, little man's honor. Technically, I'm lying. This crime scene could not be any closer to my area of expertise. But I'd rather not broadcast my knowledge about these particular nighttime activities. Daytime Dexter is just a humble blood spatter analyst.

"Listen, it's nothing personal," Deb says, with an uncharacteristic amount of tact. "You do great work, Masuka, you really do. But I need someone focused on this case one hundred and ten percent."

I fully expect Masuka to put up a fight. But he doesn't. "Damn, you can tell, can't you?" He sighs in defeat. "I should've never accepted the position as a volunteer professor. It's a big commitment, but I can't quit now. We're already halfway through the semester, and the students can't get enough of me," he says hopelessly.

Deb nods solemnly. "Don't worry about it. We admire your commitment to the community," she says very seriously, before winking at me and then averting her eyes, blushing.

Nevertheless, Masuka doesn't miss an opportunity to make the situation even more awkward before he turns to leave. "Say Dexter, many of my pupils are interested in hot juices, and I don't mean the sexy kind. You wouldn't mind dropping by as a guest speaker sometime next week, would you?"

"He would love to," Deb answers for me, as she nudges him out the door. Masuka departs with a satisfied smirk, leaving the two Morgans notably alone in the briefing room.

Deb slugs me in the shoulder a little too hard. "There. It's official," she says, self-satisfied. "Your on this investigation now."

And just like that the final piece falls into place, and thickheaded, emotionally brain-dead Dexter at last understands. Deb didn't take a leap of faith in me because of my hokey personality or even my admirable steak-cooking abilities. She took a leap of faith in me because of my deadly detective skills. It's no coincidence that she's placed me on the case that reminds us of Brian. She wants my Dark Passenger to track down this Moser brother admirer so she can hand our playmate over to Lady Justice. Should I feel used and abused? Or, should I feel thankful? Like Harry, it appears she's devised a plan to square me away.

When I return to my office, I find a young man wearing a cardigan hovering over my desk.

I ask the obvious question. "What are you doing here, Louis?"

Louis Greene is slow to tare his eyes away from the photos on my desk, but his expression quickly changes the second he does. "Hey Dexter," he says brightly, with an annoyingly cheerful grin, "I'm just dropping off a blood report. Masuka let me help him with it since you weren't feeling well yesterday. It's from DDK's crime scene."

"Right," I say tonelessly.

"Of course, I'm not an expert like you," Louis adds modestly, "but I thought it looked pretty clean-cut. A clear suicide, I mean."

I nod. "That's what I've heard. But I'll make sure it gets to the Captain. Thanks." I extend my hand for the blood report, but he deliberately sets it down on my desk instead, disturbing my meticulously arranged crime scene collage. I clench my jaw.

"Hey, what's this?" Louis asks curiously, as if noticing the stills of dismembered body parts for the first time.

"A different case," I say shortly. "Listen, Louis, as much as I'd enjoy discussing blood work with you, I've actually got some serious work to get done today."

"Okay, sure," Louis complies. He turns to leave, but then changes his mind. "I've just got one last question for you, Dexter. How can you tell if a crime scene has been doctored?"

"What?" If I had a heart, it might skip a beat right now. But I am confident that I don't, and I am also certain that I left no trace behind.

I raise my eyebrows. "Is this another idea for a video game?"

His ice blue eyes hold mine for a beat. Then his face breaks into another annoyingly cheerful grin. "Yeah, something like that," he concedes, with a carefree laugh. "See you around, Dexter."

I stab at a spinach salad with a fork as I silently contemplate every impulsive decision, minuet and momentous, I've made in the last 48 hours. For example, right now screwing Quinn yesterday seems relatively minute in the grand scheme of things. Because I let a murderer run free. I took credit for a fake crime scene. And I didn't even punish Dex. In fact, I practically promoted him, with a revoltingly girlish wink. Am I fucking brain dead?

I shake my head. My brain is working just fine. For the first time, I am actually starting to see the world around me clearly. I will always love Dex. Even if he sliced up Travis Marshall with a fucking grin on his face, he's still the only family I have left. He's still my dumb, big foster brother, and he's all I've got.

Despite the gruesome details, what happened the other night I can learn to accept. I've killed on the job before without feeling an ounce of remorse. Hell, I even let Number 13 and her companion get away with serial murder, because I can also understand as well as anyone what it means to feel broken. Who was I to deny her peace of mind after all she'd been through?

But there is one thing I simply can't accept: Dex can't lie to me anymore. I am certain that DDK wasn't his first kill. It's not just because I bleed blue. A part of me knows—has always known, even before I became a cop—that there's more to Dex than meets the eye.

"Hey!" I holler, sliding open the kitchen window. The neighbor's dog's ears perk up, but he's only silent for a moment before he resumes his incessant yapping. I bang on the windowsill over the sink in frustration. "Shut the fuck up!" I demand, practicing my authoritative, future cop voice.

"Debra!" My father's authoritative, real cop voice voice enters the kitchen, and I swing around to find him frowning at me disapprovingly, his armed crossed. He's dressed in his pressed, blue uniform, which can only mean he'll soon be off to fight crime and kill some bad guys. But first he reaches over my shoulder to rinse out his empty coffee mug in the sink. "Watch your language, young lady."

"Sorry," I say, reluctantly. I glare accusingly at Dex as I return to my seat at the breakfast table. Why hadn't he warned me that Dad had come downstairs? Dex returns my look with an innocent shrug before he spears a piece of ham with his knife.

"It's just the d-dang dog won't ever shut up," I explain in a small voice, "and the doctor said Mom needs her rest."

As if to emphasize my point, the dog starts to howl at the invisible, daytime moon. My father shuts the kitchen window, but it does little to shield the noise.

He finishes drying the mug with a towel before turning around with a response. His expression has softened considerably, and I can almost see the defeated pain hiding behind his eyes. "I know, darling," Dad agrees, "but we've talked about this before. There's nothing we can do about Mr. Erickson's dog."

Yet, I know he's talking about more than the dog. I resist the urge to burst into tears because I'm not a baby anymore.

My father puts the mug back in its proper place before he kisses Dex and I goodbye on the head. "You two behave yourselves today, all right? I won't be home until late." I notice that Dex and he share one of their special looks. "We'll go hunting next weekend, son, I promise," he assures him. He gives Dex's shoulder an extra squeeze before he departs.

As soon as the front door latches closed, I round on my foster brother, suddenly furious at everything about him.

"Do you even love her?" I question.

"What?" he asks as calm and clueless as can be. A piece of egg, halfway en route to his mouth, hangs comically from his fork.

"Do you even love her?" I repeat. "Do you even care that she's sick?"

Dex puts down his fork and knife and at last cuts his attention from his meal. He searches my face as if looking for some hint at the proper response. He's never been very good at expressing emotions, so I realize it's not really fair for me to start attacking him now. But I could honestly care less at this point.

"Deb, she's our mom," he says, finally. "Of course, I care," he explains matter-of-factly, as if referencing the laws of the Morgan Family Rulebook.

"No, she's my mom," I correct him scathingly, "not yours. You're adopted. There's no rule that says you have to love her just because Dad brought you home to live with us."

Dex opens his mouth and then shuts it again, clearly confounded. I continue to glare at him. The faint sound of the wretched dog barking and growling at god knows what punctuates the silence.

Then, his mouth sets into a determined, straight line, and his eyes darken. "Don't worry, Deb. I will get him to stop barking."

Dex disappears outside that afternoon and the dog is silent by suppertime. My mother sleeps soundly that night. I don't even care to ask how he did it, because, at the time, that doesn't seem like what truly matters. He had become my hero that day, and maybe I've been blinded ever since.

Until now. I stare down at my lunch, revolted by the bitter smell of my vinaigrette salad dressing.

He will tell me the whole truth.

The next break in the case comes in the late evening when Deb is pushing papers across her desk.

I join her and Masuka as he delivers the shocking update from the lab because I am, after all, now the lead forensics investigator. "I just got the ID back on yesterday's vic," he announces. "His name is – or was – Carl Wilson."

It's an utterly ordinary name and shouldn't impress me in the slightest. Yet, for some reason, it rings a bell, and my Dark Passenger sends a cold shiver up my spine.

"So? Who is the poor bastard?" Deb asks, sliding to the edge of her seat.

"He was just a high school science teacher with high blood pressure," Masuka informs us, anticlimactically. "But here's the clincher: he wasn't murdered. He died about a week and a half ago. Of a heart attack. His body has been in the morgue since the night before last."

My Dark Passenger disappears in disgust, along with my mistake admiration for my newfound friend.

"Which means his body must've been stolen from the morgue," Deb concludes, "before being cut up and laid out at by our perp at the crime scene."

"Exactly," Masuka confirms. He turns to pat me on shoulder consolingly. "Sorry, Dex. You can't be the lead forensics investigator anymore. This case doesn't belong in Homicide. It's just a regular ole' steal-and-defile-a-cadaver offense."

I can't say who looks more crestfallen: Deb or I. But then Deb answers my question for me.

"Out of my effing way!" she commands as she pushes past us to the ladies room, apparently physically sickened by her decision to spare Disturbed Dexter so that he could catch her a disturbed delinquent.

An hour later, I sense it's finally safe to knock on Deb's door with a container full of fresh chicken noodle soup in a gesture of goodwill. But she doesn't answer. So I find the spare key, hidden under her doormat like a convenient plot cliché, and let myself in.

I locate Deb in her living room. Arms wrapped around her knees, she sits on her couch staring down an untouched six-pack on her coffee table.

"How are you feeling?" I ask cautiously.

Deb refuses to break her staring contest with the six-pack as she answers me. "I need to know that you will tell me the whole truth," she says. Her voice sounds hoarse as though she's just screamed her lungs out.

"Okay," I agree, uncomfortable with where this is headed.

"Do you promise you'll answer all of my questions honestly?" she presses, eyes still locked on the prize.

"Deb, I-" She cuts across me as her eyes move to meet mine. They are bloodshot.

"Because I need to be able to trust you. You're all I have, Dex. And I don't know if I can face this without you."

I nod, settling down next to her on the couch while maintaining eye contact. Although I may have made mockery of the concept, I've always admired honesty. I revered the way my friend, the artist, displayed his work in broad daylight just as I was once impressed by my brother. Despite my personal desires, I've forced myself to hide from everyone, except Harry, my whole life. Maybe Harry was right; maybe it was for the better. But it's too late now. Harry even said it himself. Deb will inevitably uncover my darkest secrets; it's only a matter of time. So what's the harm in telling her my side of the story first?

I lay out my palms on my lap. "Ask me anything."

But she doesn't ask me anything. Instead, she reveals a secret of her own: "I ate a fucking spinach salad for lunch today. And I fucking hate spinach."

"Oh."

"I'm pregnant."