I stood apprehensive before the stainless steel doors of the station's elevator as it ascended to Homicide. Time slowed to a meandering crawl allowing my imagination to send me into a panic. I had no idea what to expect, so I allowed myself the virtue of assumption. I figured it had something to do with Quinn and my bruised knuckles. After all, the last thing I remember was standing in this same elevator with Quinn on our way for drinks at the behest of Angel Batista. I was also subtly accosted by an unnerving feeling at the pit of my stomach. My predatory instincts had been sharpened recently; I could tell something was wrong. But the worst of it was not knowing what secrets I may have let slip – what skeletons I inadvertently divulged to the oblivious world in my drunken stupor. In the past, many people have told me their own dark little secrets under the indiscriminating influence of alcohol, thereby feeding my growing concerns in the present, and consequently reshaping my immediate future for better or worse. No matter the consequence for my earlier actions, however, I am quite fond of my sister. I can do this much for her, at least. The doors to Homicide opened.

Luckily, the department had less torso-traffic than in the afternoon. This would have decreased distressed Dexter's chances for scrutiny had the usual suspects not decided to loiter around. And though I had very little time before I was recognized and my transgressions from earlier revealed, whatever they may have been, it seemed the department was without Quinn. Angel remained standing before his desk with one hand resting against his forehead, overwhelmed by the abundance of paperwork cluttering his desk.

"Chingada madre." Angel lifted his head in reprieve from his impending bureaucratic punishment. In consolation, he noticed me standing doe-eyed just beyond the department's glass doors. "Hey Dex!" Angel waved me over. Let's hope drunk Dexter played nicer than his sober counterpart does.

"Hey. Do you know where my sister is? She called me in. I guess it's kind of important." Diverting from eventual incriminating topics is a fundamental rule of social survival; or so I've discovered.

Angel laughed, "that's an understatement. Yeah, she's waiting for you in Maria's office."

"Thanks." As I turned with a little more haste than I would have liked, he spoke out again.

"When you're done, we need to talk. Family comes first, though." Talk? About what? No time to think about that now. Angel was right, family does come first. Even if that means the Dark Passenger has to skip a couple meals. I nodded to Angel and made my way to the door of the Lieutenant's office. The shades were still drawn, and a weak light permeated through the small openings and fissures between the slim panels. I knocked on the door, and with complete disregard to the cries of my survival intuition, I entered.

The mood hadn't changed since the last time I was in the office. However, I noticed Deborah was alone. This was no longer an intervention for my sister. Now, it felt more like a confessional for Dexter. Deborah rapidly wiped her eyes on her sleeves. "Hey bro. Nice to see you could make it for once."

I took a seat on the couch beside her, "of course. Anything for my beautiful sister." Deborah laughed, then pointed to her face. I got the hint; she wasn't looking too good. "So what's up?"

"What's up? Fuck, Dex." After a short silence, she realized I wasn't getting this hint, "the Ice Truck Killer ring any bells? Do you even remember what happened to me?" Her tears were suddenly restocked and open for business.

"Yes, Deborah, that's not what I meant. I know all of this has to be really hard on you." Good start, I thought, "did you want me to pick up some food? Or we can go out? I know a good steak house by the apartment. I'm buying." I never did have much luck with subtly. She didn't budge. So much for killing two birds with one stone. By now, my stomach interjected his selfish opinion during conversational down-time. The social dead air that carries the Dark Passenger's thoughts into my consciousness had a voice for the time being. And it grumbled fiercely.

Deborah's eyes shrank with intensity. "Is that seriously all you can think about right now, Dexter; Food?" Deborah began to shake. "I'm having a pretty awful fucking day, and I could sure use some fucking support from my only brother!" Guilt trips were always my sister's trump card, and for some reason, I always end up folding.

"You're right. I'm a complete prick. I'm sorry. How can I help?"

My sister breathed deeply, "I need to ask you something. And when I do, I need you to not get mad."

I reassured her, "nothing you can say will make me angry."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Now would you just spit it out?" I hurried her, but I was playful. She reacted positively for a moment then refocused herself on her worries.

"Did you," Deborah paused for a moment to take another stab at the question, "did you love Rita?" I was truly surprised by the question and equally perplexed with conjuring a logical response. Since time was an issue, I found myself creating on a whim again. I'm not sure where the words and thoughts were coming from, but I had to rely on them to help my sister.

"I did." Dexter, come on. "I did love Rita. A lot. She made me feel comfortable." I instantly found myself in deep recollection. "Most of the time, though, she was my escape."

Deborah had to butt in, "escape what?"

"Myself. My life. My job. When I was with her, I felt safe. It made me a better husband to Rita and a better father to my kids. She's a constant reminder of the positive influences I'm capable of having on my family. She opened my eyes to a lot of better things. In a way, Rita will always be with me. Closer than anyone." I may have been honest with myself, and out loud, for the first time in a long while. I'm glad Deborah was there to witness it.

Deborah had been welling with tears since I walked in the room, and only then did she let loose. She fell on me for comfort, crying on my shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Dex. I just had to be sure. You know?"

"Sure of what?"

She pushed away to better address me, "I just remembered how you and your brother were found in that shipping container. About your mother, and what you both saw. When I fell in lo--" Deborah caught herself, "when I thought I fell in," she still struggled, "you know. He used to tell me things that made me happy. That fuck. And I believed him. Turned out to be the fucking Ice Truck Killer. That piece of shit didn't feel a thing with me, or anyone." I felt Deborah driving at a point that could put the integrity of devout brother Dexter in jeopardy. "And ever since I discovered who you were, I started to notice similarities between you and your psychotic brother. I didn't say anything, but I could have sworn you didn't feel a thing when Rita died. Not even a tear when social services took Cody and Astor to their bitch grandmother's. You hardly come by to see Harrison." The lecture sent Deborah into a daze. She'd forgotten to breathe and once again found comfort on my shoulder. I held her tight.

"I think about Harrison, Cody and Astor all the time. But I'm not ready yet." In every truth, there is a lie. In this case, I would be with my kids again; to raise them and protect them. But for now, I needed my late night bloody vices to sustain me. It wouldn't be long now.

Deborah and I spent another couple minutes discussing future plans and joking about mental health before I was free to go. After doing the right thing and offering my sister a ride home several times, which she inevitably declined, I found myself on the other side of the Lieutenant's door with Angel's back turned toward me. This was my chance! I walked with a long gait and swift, powerful strides toward the gleaming freedom of the elevator doors and of course, Peter Olshansky. "Dex!" I didn't get very far before Angel spotted me.

I approached him, concealing my bruised knuckles within my pocket, "what's up?"

"I just wanted to talk to you about earlier."

"It's all good, man," I took control immediately, but I sounded ridiculous using modern colloquialism, "I don't remember anything that happened. I guess I drank too much. Thanks, by the way."

"Of course. My pleasure, buddy. But, you say you don't remember a thing?"

"Not a thing." I said confidently.

Angel smiled, "never mind. You're gonna love this then. After I left, apparently Quinn got into a fight with some random asshole over some stupid drunk shit, so the guy sucker-punched him in the face. I gave him the rest of the night off." I couldn't have smiled more. "Was just hoping you got a look at the guy. Anyway, I got a lot of work to do, as you can see. Unless you wanna help?"

I started backing away, "no thank you. It's been a long day." And the night is only beginning.

"Just thought I'd ask. Take it easy, Dexter." Angel Batista, sold a bill of goods by a man with a clandestine motive. Why would Quinn lie to Sergeant Batista about his black eye? Why protect me? It didn't matter. The thoughts were in one ear and out the other as the doors to the elevator opened. After they closed, I found myself in an audible vacuum -- a silent chamber with only dead air. In the brooding stillness, I heard my Dark Passenger whispering to me; "Peter."

"Peter."

"Peter."

"Peter..."