Invitation
Setting: "Return to Sender"

I sit at my desk, staring down at everything. I was so, so sure. I was positive that we were looking at a copycat, maybe even the start of a whole new slew of killings, but it was just the husband all along.

I keep looking between the boy's sketch and a blown-up shot of Jorge Castillo, trying to see the resemblance, but like everyone else all I can see in the drawing is Jesus. Dexter must be right: the kid must've been too dehydrated and confused to register what he'd been seeing that night. Maybe all he saw was shadows, and in order to understand what he saw he put a face and a figure to it. God saved him from whatever it was that the Castillos had planned for him.

His story was my best evidence in support of the copycat theory, besides just my interpretation of the scene. A stranger in the salvage yard was the idea I built my argument on. And now there's a bloody knife and a bloody sock. In the course of a morning, everything I've built has collapsed around me.

Maybe I was just grasping. My life's been the Ice Truck killings for weeks and weeks and weeks. Maybe I saw him there because I wanted to, because at the moment that's all I can see. I guess, really, what were the chances that my second homicide case would turn out to be a copycat of the first?

Still, that scene, the way she was laid out: the table, the checkered table cloth, the cut on her cheek. It was so—

"Hey."

Something plunks down to my right, breaking through my stream of consciousness, and I look over to see Dexter sitting there beside me. I feel my face crunch into a scowl. "If you've come to gloat, do me a favor and fuck off," I say.

"Why would I do that?" he says. "Everyone makes mistakes."

I just look at him, not sure how to interpret that. "Then what do you want?" I ask.

"I was just wondering if you'd want to come to Astor's birthday party today."

There's something vaguely touching about the invitation that takes me aback, but at the same time that's not really where I want to be. "I don't know, Dex," I hedge. "It's kind of late notice. Besides, there's still a fuckton and a half to do on this case, assuming it's even still ours."

"Come on," he says, apparently completely oblivious to how annoyed with him I am. "It's one evening. They'll get along fine without you."

That wasn't the right thing to say. I feel another jab of annoyance.

"Besides, with how much overtime you've been putting in lately, I'm sure the lieutenant will let you take off a few hours early."

"This coming from the guy who told me she'd drop kick me back to Vice if I presented my copycat theory to her?"

He pauses, finally seeming to hear my tone. "Listen, I'm sorry the case turned out this way, I really am, and I'm sorry I said what I did. It was a good theory. I'll admit that when I first walked into that trailer, I didn't think it was the husband either—"

I don't want to hear his 'but.' "It's fine," I say to preempt it. "I've let it go." Or I'm letting it go, anyway.

I'm in the process of letting it go.

"So can I tell Rita yes?"

Of course he's gotta drop her fucking name. "I don't have a gift," I say, groping for an excuse, not really wanting to spend the evening with him and a bunch of kids.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "You can put your name on mine if you want."

I exhale, not wanting to give in, but I can feel myself caving. Dammit.

"There'll be cake," he says, just to twist the knife. "Coconut Dream cake. Rita made it. And there'll be snacks, brownies, bowls of fruit, whatever the other moms brought." He pauses. "And Rita's got beer in her fridge."

Sometimes I really fucking hate him.

"Come on," he says, knowing he has me. "It'll be fun."

I physically feel myself crack. "Fine." I hold up my hands. "I'll go. You happy?"

He smiles. "Very."

I glower at him. "What time do I need to be there?"

"4:30."

"Okay, go away." I shoo at him. "I'll see you there if LaGuerta okays it."

"Alright, sister." He's still smiling as he gets up and goes back to his office. His second victory of the day, and my second defeat.

The fucker...

I exhale, look back down at all the papers on my desk, at my profile and that list I got from the FBI, feeling utterly defeated. So much work, so much energy, wasted. Maybe Doakes was right about me being too green. I wonder what Dad would've said about all this.

"Buck up, Morgan," I hear from across the room, and I glance back up to see Doakes looking at me from his desk. "It's okay your copycat theory didn't pan out. Trust me, you're not getting bounced back to Vice for having ideas."

I meet his gaze. So he was listening to our conversation.

I'm glad no one seems to be holding my zealousness against me, not even LaGuerta, but I really don't want to talk about it. "What's going on with the FBI?" I ask.

"Jorge's still our arrest to make," he says, "but that doesn't mean the feds won't offer him a deal for information on his ring once he does turn up."

I lean back. "Why do you think he killed her?"

"I'm still going with money."

"Tried and true," I mutter. Right up there with 'The husband did it.' "But why did he leave her body like that? And who called us to the scene?"

He shrugs. "Who knows? They were a couple of sick motherfuckers. Maybe it was his way of saying one final fuck you to her."

I sigh, still struggling to accept the fact that this turned out to be so simple. "Want to grab lunch and finish our reports?"

He almost grins at me, which looks weird on his face. "Not saving room for cake, Morgan?"

"Fuck off, I didn't eat this morning," I say, getting up. "I'm gonna go talk to LaGuerta, then I'm going to the food truck. You can join if you want."

"You still buying?" he asks.

I remember my offer from this morning, which really wasn't that long ago, when I'd been so sure I had found us a new lead to chase. "No," I say flatly.

I hear him snort as I make my way past him toward LaGuerta's office. She's in there scribbling away, probably working on the press release on Jorge Castillo. The guy's been in the paper for two days courtesy of his involvement with human smuggling, but now we can officially tack murder onto his laundry list of offenses too.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant?" I say, knocking on her open door.

"Morgan," she says, looking up. "How can I help you?"

I'm not sure if I'm hoping she'll say yes or no. "I know it's short notice, but I was wondering if I could leave around 3:30 today. Dexter's girlfriend, Rita, her daughter's having a birthday and they invited me."

"That's fine," she says immediately, which sort of surprises me. "Just try to have everything done before you go."

"That won't be a problem," I say. "Thanks."

"No problem. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to have this done in..." she glances at her watch, "fifteen minutes."

"Yeah," I say, then quickly leave. That was surprisingly painless. Maybe despite what she said yesterday she's growing to be okay with me, or, at the least, just moving away from open hostility.

As I step out I notice Dexter watching me through his blinds. When I meet his eyes he mouths 'So?' Begrudgingly, I give him a thumbs up, then return to my desk for my purse, feeling hungry and irritable. Doakes appears at my elbow as I throw it over my shoulder. "Alright," he says. "Let's have lunch, finish up our reports together."

"Sounds good to me," I say.

We walk to the elevator, but don't say anything more to each other as we wait for it, then step inside. As we descend I can't help but be a little glad, despite myself, for the evening I suddenly have off, if anything just because it'll give me some time to pull my head out of my ass over Valerie Castillo. I need a break, to spend a little time with some non-cops. God knows Doakes' family were basically the only real people I've interacted with since Sean.

Besides, like Dexter said, there'll be cake...