Title: Break Me
Fandom: Dexter
Rating: M for language and explicit content
Disclaimer: I do not own Dexter or any of its characters. I'm only borrowing them, but I don't promise to return them in the same condition I received them in. If/when there are some broken bones and hearts by the end of this writing exercise, please hug the characters for me – I know you people are dying for an excuse.
Author's notes: Inexplicable delays at the printers have set back my book's progress and so contrary to the initial projections (cast out of what misinformation and guesswork, I'm now unable to learn) the novel will not be available for presale next weekend. I'm pretending to be okay about this, so if anyone asks, tell them I reacted gracefully and with enviable patience and understanding and that – FUCKING HELL PEOPLE, HOW BLOODY HARD IS IT TO PICK A FUCKING DATE AND MEET YOUR OWN FUCKING DEADLINE?! – and that I acknowledged how difficult it must be to accurately project a timeline for one's own self-paced task, especially when that task is one's only job. *deep breath* Official release stands at May 2. Until someone delays that, too. Fuck publishers.
Thanks to my many lovelies for your lovely words of loveliness. Thanks and welcome AngryHellFish! We're all pissed with the writers, too :) so we read and write angsty fanfiction to satisfy the gaping hole the writers left inside us. I loved reading your theories! I'll never give any of them any credence, but I will say that some of your thinking is similar to mine. I hope you continue to read and review, and thankyou once again for sharing your opinions – I don't have enough words in my vocabulary to really explain how grateful I am to my readers when I log in and find they've left their heart and minds inside a review all for me. FaceJacker, I'm so flattered to be continuing to impress you. Haha, to be honest, Luna Lovegood DID occur to me in relation to Sari, but only after I wrote the chapter and went back over for a reread. I looked up that actress and you're right, she'd be perfect! darknessfalls28, I'm glad the chapter was worth the wait! Those kinds of scenes take me ages to write because of all the detailing and the perfectionist in me rips her hair out over all the particulars. I won't comment on the future for Dex and Deb, but hope it continues to hold you! the harsh realm, I'll try to stop smiling about your review long enough to type a response. AS ALWAYS I say NOTHING to your theories, no matter how interesting or correct or incorrect they might be, but I still love to hear them. You write great reviews and I still intend to have you write one for my book once you've read it! And I promise, I didn't touch your candles! soodohnimh, a bit more sweet family time in this one for you. Thanks as always, shadow. Hi again Vema! Thankyou for reading it all and for sharing your thoughts; I love reading them! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Wolfcub-sm, I loved all the same scenes that you mentioned! The whispering about walking her down the aisle part was the highlight of the chapter for me as well, so I don't think you're weird for loving that bit. I won't say anything about who ends up happy/unhappy/with who/doing what/dead/alive, though :P You'll just have to wait and see. bellart, you're back! I thought that callout would bring you out of hiding. I'm glad the chapter met your expectations – requests I think I can meet get set aside in another document to remind me, and yours has sat there haunting me for a long time. So I'm happy that I finally fulfilled that request :) I laughed so hard when you said it was weird for Dexter to call Deb his sister when he kissed her, but I read the rest of that paragraph and I completely agree with you. Deb is more than Dexter's sister: she's his role model and conscience. And yeah, he never deserved how amazing she was to him. By season eight I couldn't understand why she didn't just actually run away from him, he was such an arsehole. I'm glad he's better here, and I'm glad you still love this story, and I'm glad you let that review get out of hand. Thankyou.
For a number of reasons, the song for this chapter is Set Fire to the Rain by Adele. Love that bass.
Chapter Thirty-seven
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/
"Ugh! It's raining!"
Astor's indignant voice rouses the rest of us, though we were probably only moments away from waking to the same realisation. The sky above my eyes, when I open them, is grey with the early hour and the thick cloud. Sharp raindrops strike my eyeball and I sit up, feeling as indignant as Astor sounds. Apparently it is no longer Saturday, and the weather would like to make me fully aware of that fact.
Harrison is the only person who got a decent amount of sleep last night so he's the only one not instantaneously grumpy over this rude awakening. He jumps to his feet and opens his mouth to catch the warm morning raindrops. Deb has to grab him and carry him inside as the gentle initial patter of rain becomes quickly heavier, because he doesn't follow the three older kids when they bolt for the house. I'm left to gather up the blankets and pillows – because I'm the dad, you see – and I get quite rained-on.
Our collective foul mood with the weather is much improved by coffee, hot chocolate and hot showers, but we instead pass the mood onto the Bennett grandparents, who are awoken much too early by our morning busyness. Bill and Maura come reluctantly out of their bedroom, yawning and pulling on dressing gowns, and I recognise my cue.
"Go back to bed," I encourage them, and I send the kids to get ready for breakfast, as I'll be taking them out somewhere for it. The grandparents look utterly relieved – I know they like my sister and I for who we are as people, but I think it doesn't hurt that when we are here, their lives as second-time parents are significantly eased. While the teenagers muck about dressing themselves and trying to tame last night's gelled and sprayed hair, I sit on the edge of the bathtub helping Harrison to brush his teeth, beside Deb as she straightens her hair. She's brushed all the stiff hairspray out of it so it's much softer than last night.
"What are you thinking for breakfast?" she asks conversationally. Her head is tipped to the side and her hair hangs like a satin curtain between us, and I have to catch my son's fingers as he reaches to touch it.
"It's hot," I warn Harrison, and to Deb I say, "I hadn't thought that far ahead yet."
"McDonalds," Harrison says promptly. My sister shakes her hair back behind her shoulder to cast me a loaded look.
"Sounds good to me," she says. "You know, I think you can order cheeseburgers at any time of day. Even for breakfast, I'm told."
I smile. "I think it would be wrong of us to eat cheeseburgers in front of you. I wouldn't want you to feel left out. Or hungry. What would you eat?" I wonder aloud, earning myself a sharp elbow to my side. Harrison, so calm and unaffected by our less-than-gentle relationship, pulls away from me and the toothbrush to spit into the sink.
"Poor Aunt Deb; I forgot you can't eat anything yummy," he apologises. Not yet the master of tact. She indulges him with a tight smile.
"It's been a week, baby," she says. "I can eat whatever I like now."
"I'm not a baby," Harrison reminds her patiently, while I say, in the same tone, "It's been four and a half days, and no, you can't eat whatever you like. We have no idea what damage you've done to yourself."
"To myself?"
"You know what I mean."
"What happened to 'I won't make you do anything you don't want to do, Deb'?" my sister mocks, going back to her hair.
"Sometimes I lie," I answer easily, standing to rinse Harrison's toothbrush. My son angles a suspicious gaze up at me. He doesn't like this notion of me as a liar, but he lets it go. I take this as another strangely mature move. He pursues another line of conversation.
"When can Aunt Deb eat junky food again?" he asks.
"As soon as your dad goes home," Deb answers before I can. I restrain myself from sighing tiredly. I remind myself: she wouldn't be my Deb if she were easy. It's meant to be this difficult. I like it this difficult. I do, I do, I do. I must do or I wouldn't put up with it.
"As soon as your aunt visits a hospital and those doctors tell her she's allowed," I correct. I ignore Deb's irritated look and smile sweetly at my son. "Until then, it's up to you to keep an eye on her. You said you would."
"We can both look after her," Harrison agrees, waiting for Deb to lower the straightener so he can finally pet her hair. He whips his fingers away when the overheated hairs burn his fingertips. He inhales sharply; my sister and I respond just as quickly. Deb drops the straightener in the dry and empty bathtub and grabs her nephew's little fingers between her hands before he can start to cry, pressing tightly as though to absorb the pain from him. I turn the tap back on and shift aside when Deb pulls Harrison over by the hand. I lift him at the waist while she holds his fingers under the cold water. We both watch tensely as the tap water flows over the pink skin. I don't think it'll be bad – it was only Deb's hair, not the ceramic plate of the device itself, that he touched, though apparently in the instant after contact with the straightener the hair is plenty hot.
"Keep it under the water," I instruct Harrison when he tries to tug his hand away to look at the sensitive pad of his finger.
"It hurts," he whispers.
"Your dad told you it would be hot," Deb scolds my son, more frustrated with herself for not catching his hand than with him for giving in to the temptation. I feel the same way. Harrison nods, sniffly but not crying.
"I know," he says, voice cracking slightly with effort of being brave, "but I thought he might have been lying."
Debra glances at me over Harrison's head, resigned. Shit. It's less than eight hours out of the perfect Saturday and already my reputation as a liar is surfacing. I kiss my son's soft hair.
"Sometimes I do lie," I admit carefully. "Everybody does, and it isn't always for a mean reason. Sometimes I lie to make people feel better-"
"Like you might say, 'Aunt Deb and I aren't fighting', but actually, you are, but you didn't want me to be sad?" Harrison queries, twisting in my arms to look at me with big, innocent hazel eyes. Or are they so innocent? My son sees much more than I credited him with being mature enough to notice.
Deb turns Harrison's fingers under the stream of water to maximise the benefit, ensuring the entire fingertip is exposed to the cool water. "We aren't fighting right now," she assures him. "We're looking after you. And when we are fighting, we don't like it either, so we don't tell you because we don't want it to make you sad, and anyway, we stop fighting pretty quickly." She shoots him a brief smile, and flicks her gaze up at me momentarily as she adds, "Sometimes adults lie to protect people. Your dad has lied to you and to me before to look after us; but he never lies to get us hurt. He loves us and he looks after us. If your dad says the iron is hot, the iron is hot and you have to listen. Do you understand? You have to trust the people you love because they want good things for you. They want you to be safe."
Harrison nods. I wonder whether there's a hidden meaning in my sister's words, whether she's referring to the request I've made of her. Has she come to a decision? Has she at least accepted that I'm right, that it's for the best for her? I doubt it. If she decides to agree with me and go back to Joey Quinn, it won't happen overnight. She needs time to decide for herself that it's right, because God forbid she ever do anything purely because I want her to. It's always been why. The night Dad died – why? Why do we have to go home? The day on the beach when I told her I was leaving for Argentina – why? Why are you telling me? Why is the reason Deb is good for me: she questions me constantly and makes me justify myself.
No, it's not the reason. It's one reason. The fact that Deb is so inherently good is a reason in itself, and now I watch as she withdraws my son's fingers from the stream of tap water after a bit over a minute and examines them. I look too and see only faint redness, no shiny burnt skin and no other indication of actual injury.
"Good as new," Deb assures my son, kissing his fingers and turning off the water as I lower Harrison to the ground. He smiles up at her, apparently all better now that the drama of our concern has passed, and he races from the bathroom, calling back that he's going to put his shoes on. Deb stoops down for the straightener she threw into the bath. Its light is still flashing its warning about the high temperature.
"Do me a favour," I request when she turns to the mirror and finishes her hair, "and when you buy your dream family home with Quinn," – I get the raised eyebrow in the mirror – "choose a place near his school so he can walk to yours every single afternoon. I want him to see you every day of his life. I want him to always have you and grow up to be exactly like you."
Deb rolls her eyes, reasonably good-naturedly. "Again, get your fucking wishes under control, loser. No one's granted them yet. I haven't even decided whether I care to." She shifts her head so an unstraightened lock of hair moves and becomes apparent. She locks it between the arms of the heating tool and fixes that, and catches my eye in the mirror, adding in the same firm tone, "And damn fucking straight your kid's got me, and always will, and is going to see me every day of life until he leaves us for college and a hot girlfriend." She returns her attention to her hair and continues in a milder voice. "He's the only child I'm ever going to have."
"You're the closest thing to a mother he's known," I answer, very quietly, both because it would be hurtful to the Bennetts if they overheard and because it's the sort of thing you only admit very softly. It's sad but beautiful. Deb sighs and turns off the straightener. She pulls the cord from the powerpoint and turns to face me.
"It doesn't matter whether I do what you've asked or tell you to go fuck yourself with your candle," she says. "I love your kids and nothing's going to change that. Now change the fucking subject before it gets heavy and depressing. I'm not in the mood for heavy."
Out in the living room, Astor is arguing with Sari, trying to convince her that she has to come to breakfast with us.
"It's better if I go home," Sari says, with a smile. I can tell that she enjoys Astor's new friendship and likes being fought for. Who doesn't? "My diet isn't catered for everywhere and you'll be driving around all morning trying to find somewhere that I can eat at."
"Then we'll drive around all morning until you're fed," Astor replies staunchly. "Aunt Deb can't eat anything much at the moment anyway. She's on some weird organic diet. There have to be vegan cafes somewhere in town."
"It'll be really inconvenient, plus we'll have to take more than one car. It's better if I go home – everything there is stuff I can eat. Really," Sari insists when Astor tries again, "it's fine. I'm happier going home than watching everyone else stare blankly at vegan menus."
Astor's mouth quirks into a smile, her sense of humour triggered. "Maybe sometime we can go to one of those vegan places; the three of us," she clarifies, glancing back at her brother to include him when he walks into the room. "You can help us navigate the menus."
Astor finally allows Sari to miss breakfast, but when the younger teen announces she's walking home, I join forces with my stepdaughter to refuse. It's raining quite steadily by now and I'm not cool with letting a thirteen-year-old little girl walk home in bad weather. I leave Deb with the other kids at the house and usher Cody and Sari into my car.
It turns out that Sari lives reasonably close, a distance that is not unwalkable but that is preferably driven. In the backseat she and Cody giggle and point at her phone screen at the pictures she took last night. I glance at them in the rear-vision mirror. To be honest they don't look all that coupley but they are children and I think that once they realise that they are perfect best friends they could be good for each other forever. Especially now that Astor has accepted Sari into her small circle of people, too. My children are surrounded by good people, and I'm so glad.
At Sari's house I turn in my seat to look back at her. She gathers her bag to herself and smiles at me. She brings security and happiness to Cody in her willingness to be unique; she encourages Astor to widen her mind and Astor, like Deb and I, likes to be challenged in this way. Sari is good for my kids, so I say, "I was very glad to meet you this weekend, Sari. I hope I see you again next time I visit."
Offbeat and weird Sari isn't lost to the tactful and considerate young lady of this morning. "Yeah. Even if you don't, even if I never see you again, I was glad to meet you, too. You're Cody's favourite person and I'm glad I got to meet his dad." As my stepson blushes bright red she quickly kisses his cheek and throws open the door. "Thanks for the ride home. I'll email the photos to Astor – she said she'd pass them onto you. See you tomorrow, Cody!" And she bolts through the rain to her front patio.
Cody is silent as I turn the car around and head home. He looks thoughtfully out his window, and several times I hear him inhale like he's steeling himself, and I notice in the mirror that he turns to look forward at me briefly, but he doesn't speak up. I leave it alone. If he has something to say he'll say it when he's ready.
At the Bennett house Deb has the other two ready, and under umbrellas she and Astor hurry to the car and load themselves and Harrison inside. The Bennett siblings share the task of buckling their little brother into his booster seat between them while Deb jumps in beside me, shaking the umbrellas off and closing the door after herself.
We find a cafe easily enough. It's a trendy-looking place in a less-than-trendy position, a double-storey building with the seating out on a covered balcony. I assume when it's not rainy the view is quite nice. The street is a tight one-way passage and is lined by accountancy firms, a printing company and various other offices. None seem to be open on Sundays. Due to the rain the parking spaces nearest the cafe are very taken, so I park as near as I can get and follow my family inside. We're seated by a chirpy hostess whose unexplained enthusiasm and cheer immediately annoys my sister. We order various breakfast foods that Sari wouldn't have been able to eat – bacon and eggs, omelettes, French toast, pancakes – and when I reflect that all she could have eaten here would have been dry muesli with fruit, I'm glad the poor kid was so insistent on giving breakfast a miss.
Breakfast is excellent, as sparkly as any part of Saturday. My children and sister delight in the family experience of eating out together. Their smiles and laughter are direct results of their interactions with each other, and how easily the happiness bounces from one to the next. Cody and Astor enjoy their aunt's sharp wit; it encourages quicker comebacks from each of them. Harrison loves having everyone he loves in the one place. Minus Jamie, I suppose, but though he adores her, I know he recognises that this is what matters – family, and while Jamie is amazing, I have used her for too long as a substitute for this. I should have incorporated her into this. I should have given Harrison both. Jamie should be here right now. Next time, I assure myself, cutting up Harrison's toast into small pieces for him. He is anxious about touching the toast, noting the steam and apparently still freshly aware of how hot things can hurt one's fingers.
"These pancakes officially make this the best weekend of my life," Astor announces. "I mean, it was already really, really great, but these are too good for words."
Cody affirms this through a muffled mouthful of bacon, and Deb clinks her glass of water with Astor's orange juice. Harrison wants to take part in this toasting – no doubt he's seen adults knocking glasses together as a social behaviour and wants to imitate it – and leans across the table to tap his sister's glass with his milkshake. It's too heavy and tall, and when he sits back into his seat he knocks the glass and it topples back towards him and spills. I'm quick to catch it before he can become coated in pink froth and before it can roll onto the floor and shatter, but plenty of the sticky pink milk still splashes onto his clothes and arms. Harrison's eyes are huge with unhappy surprise. He looks pretty funny.
Cody snorts through his mouthful of food, spraying the table with flecks of bacon and eggs and prompting Astor to leap to her feet in disgust with her messy, dirty brothers. You don't have it all that bad, I think wryly as I use the napkins on the table to soak up the spilt milk. At least Astor's brothers' worst is being messy at breakfast in public – they'll never kidnap her, plastic-wrap her to a table and argue over whether or not to kill her.
"These are never going to get rid of it all," Deb mutters, throwing a handful of saturated napkins down on the table and getting up. She eyes Cody with amusement as he struggles to finish chewing his food, breathe and contain his laughter all at once. "There's baby wipes in the car, right?"
I nod and dig in my pocket for the keys. Pitifully, upset with his failed attempt at being grown-up, Harrison says, "I'm not a baby."
"I know," Deb agrees, ruffling her nephew's hair. "Baby wipes for your scruff of a brother, not for you." She smirks at Cody when he loses it and has to laugh, and he pushes his plate away so he can rest his elbows on the table and choke with some space. Deb takes the car keys from me and heads for the staircase with an umbrella. I pat Cody on the back until he can swallow and breathe again, tears of laughter wetting his lashes. Astor gives him a look at is partly concerned, partly annoyed, and goes looking for more napkins. I'm left at the table with my two boys, who are both messes. Should that come as a surprise to anyone that my sons should be such disasters? Harrison stares at his older brother, unable to see the humour in his own bad luck.
"You looked... so funny!" Cody explains haltingly between swallows and breaths and bursts of uncontrollable laughter. Harrison's eyebrows knit together but Cody keeps laughing. "You looked... so surprised. And there was... milk everywhere... this splash on your forehead... it was funny..." He lays his head on his arms as he is overcome with mirth. Harrison watches him curiously, unsure, but I see his expression start to relax as he starts to understand that Cody is laughing at his situation, not at him. Astor returns with more napkins and she and I soak up the remainder of the pink milk. I wipe up what I can of the liquid on Harrison's skin but the stickiness will not go away without the wet wipes Deb is bringing. Astor throws a handful of napkins at her middle brother and tells him to get a grip, but I can tell she's more than half-pleased to see Cody so light and carefree. She's a good sister, caring. Rita's truly alive inside Astor Bennett.
My phone rings and I check the caller ID. Pamela Isley. I reject the call. I don't have time for Hannah right now. I have flecks of bacon to wipe up. I'm about to return the phone to my pocket when it rings again. I consider irritably answering and telling Hannah to go the hell away but this call isn't from her.
Agent Scott Reid.
Is there some morbid poetry to these two dangerous people calling me within seconds of each other? I told Reid to call me whenever, except during the party, and he's done me a kindness in giving me Saturday with my family and without interruption. Reluctantly I answer.
The agent is brisk and straightforward. He apologises for interfering with my family time and assures me he will be only a moment. He asks routine questions about the cases he's pulling together – what were my findings, where can he find such-and-such report, how did I come to that conclusion, what was said during whatever-which conversation? He says there hasn't been much movement in the case. Jacob Elway is still MIA and there have been no further sightings of Hannah McKay.
"Just to clarify: when was the last time you saw McKay?" Agent Reid asks.
"Uh..." Thursday night, just as this stupid rain started. "I visited her in jail after her arrest. A few days after Christmas."
Astor and Cody have taken to bickering playfully and Harrison, staring off into space, starts to frown. He proclaims, "I don't like that man." I hear him but I'm focussed on my phone conversation; still, I spare a glance over my shoulder. I don't know what he's talking about – he's not looking into the rest of the cafe, he's looking over the balcony railing into the street.
"What was the exact date?" Agent Reid asks me crisply, apparently writing down everything I say. I think back, trying to concentrate, but now Harrison is tugging on my sleeve and demanding of me, "Daddy, why is he here? I don't like him."
"I don't know what you're talking about, buddy," I inform my son, and then manage to answer Reid. "I'm sorry, I don't recall. I just went to make sure she knew I didn't want anything more to do with her. Damn it – strawberry milk," I mutter, as a small pool of accumulating milkshake spills over the edge of the cafe table and drips onto the leg of my pants. Astor laughs and hands me her last napkin; she isn't trying to be noisy but every sound seems loud and jarring. Reid makes me feel on-edge.
"And she hasn't tried to contact you at all since her disappearance?" the agent presses.
"No, she... Harrison, shush, I'm talking... I haven't heard from McKay at all. We weren't that serious, as I told you on Friday, so I didn't expect to see her again. Why?"
"Honestly, I'm still stumped as to why McKay came back to Miami in the first place," Agent Reid admits. "It looks like she had it made – a new name, money, a clean slate – but something drew her back. Our case won't move forward until we can answer why. Look, I can tell you're busy," Reid says apologetically, while Harrison continues to yank on my shirt and demand my attention and my other two continue to talk and laugh loudly. "I'm sorry to have interrupted your vacation. I'll call back if there's anything else pertinent I need from you."
"Alright, thanks," I say hurriedly, and hang up. I meet Harrison's glare with my own. "Harrison, you could see I was on the phone-"
"Daddy," he cuts me off, more firmly than I am used to from him, "you aren't listening. The mean man is back." And he points. I sigh and turn again to look, humouring him. The street is densely lined with cars but there is little movement – everyone is inside the cafe. Except one figure, who is moving swiftly in this direction between cars. I stand and go to the railing so I can squint through the rain; when I recognise him I feel my stomach drop.
Jacob Elway. Still in the same clothes as he wore on Tuesday.
The golden light of the past day goes out.
"What's taking Aunt Deb so long?" Cody speaks up, eyeing the mess he and his brother have made of the table. His words ring about in my head as I look down the street in the other direction. I see my car, one door open, but I don't see my sister. Alarm bells go off in my brain. It's not Saturday anymore. Bad things can happen once again, and the storm has caught up with me.
I bring my phone before my face and my fingers automatically unlock and bring up 'Favourites', ready to call Deb and warn her to keep alert, but a sudden thought occurs to me and I look back at the table. The phone I would have called is on the table. She left it behind.
What the hell, Deb?
"Astor, look after your brothers," I order as I turn, pocket my phone and stride through the tables to the staircase. My daughter isn't an adult, she's not yet even sixteen, but in light of the situation the three of them are safer in a crowded public place with her in charge than they would be if I brought them downstairs with me. I glance back and see their curious faces. At least they don't look frightened, I reflect as I reach the stairs and, finally out of their line of sight, sprint down. At least my kids aren't scared like I am.
"Deb, where are you?" I wonder aloud, softly. Shit, shit... I shouldn't have let her out of my sight. I told her I wouldn't, just last night, and already I have and God only knows where she's gotten to. Did she spot Elway and bolt? Did he already attack her and drag her off somewhere, and is he now returning for me and my children? I widen my step to take the stairs two-at-a-time and leap the last three in one graceless jump, slamming into the wall opposite the foot of the stairs. I bounce off and fly across the foyer and out the door, squeezing between a pair of new customers as they hurry in from the rain.
I burst out into the street and pause for a single heartbeat to look up and down the road. My heart is pounding in my chest so that's only an instant – I gain all the visual information I need in that moment as I am quickly drenched. The man Harrison saw has passed the cafe and has broken into a jog down the centre of the otherwise dead-still street towards my car. How the hell did he find us? How the hell did he get out of that stupid, cold, creepy forest? Furthermore, how the hell did he get here without attracting attention? Even in low visibility and from a distance I can tell he looks unkempt and worryingly so – from the balcony I noticed his misshapen nose (and even through my fear and anger I feel the appropriate level of satisfaction for inflicting that) and from closer up I see the dulled and dirtied bloodstains on the shoulders of his shirt from the heavy bleed of an untreated broken nose. To get here he must have hitched rides with strangers, taken buses, I don't know... but his car is impounded, so somehow or another, he must have communicated with somebody to have reached Orlando. I squint. What's that in his hand? A... bottle? Deb's still nowhere to be seen.
I consider yelling at Elway, letting him know I'm coming for him and keeping him from whatever he's running off to do with that glass bottle, but like in the forest I stay quiet, more comfortable as a sly skulking predator than as a bold, loud one. Because that's what I immediately become when I see him; the skills I have honed all my life do not go away just because I want to be a better person. The killer in me was masked and faraway yesterday, but this threat brings it all back. My vision narrows to a sharp tunnel. Blood rushes in my ears as I take flight after him, the water on the road softening the slamming sound of my feet hitting the tarmac at speed. I expect him to hear me, to turn, but he's single-mindedly focussed on reaching my car. I blink the rain out of my eyes and see movement through the back window.
Deb is inside the car, looking for the wipes and staying out of the rain while she searches. She doesn't know she's been spotted. She's alright for now, something to be gracious for.
The steady downpour creates an added sense of urgency; I gain on Elway and he continues to fail to notice me and despite the urban setting and the rain I feel like I am back in the forest with him. My sister is his prey again and he's mine. He's a predator; but fuck him, because there are predators that prey on weaker ones. Like eagles swoop in on snakes too busy sneaking up on fieldmice. This snake swerves suddenly between two parked cars and onto the pavement. I do the same to keep out of his peripheral vision but he's not interested in spotting me so he doesn't. He has predator tunnel vision on, too, something I've learned to count on. The back door of my car is open; he stops there and leans inside. I hear the small shriek of surprise as he grabs my sister and drags her backwards and out of the vehicle. I hear Deb's furious demand: "What the fuck?! Let me go!"
"Thought I was gone, did you, you stupid fucking slut?" Elway shouts at her, harshly, bitterly, laughing without real humour, and though Deb can't turn enough to see him, she must recognise his voice because she makes a frustrated, angry noise and redoubles her efforts to escape him. She twists and grabs at the headrests to keep herself inside the car. "After everything I did for you when you were a fucking mess, when nobody else was going to put up with your shit, you set your psycho brother on me and leave me for dead in the fucking forest?! Did you think I'd just go away and you'd be sitting pretty?" He doesn't have the leverage to overpower her, not with only one hand on the collar of her shirt, but when he smashes the bottle against the roof, the noise of dozens of glass shards tumbling with the raindrops distracts his victim and makes her pause to cover her head. It's the pause he needs to yank her backwards, off-balance; and when he shows her the broken bottle and holds it above her cheek and eye – a clear threat to open her face up – she freezes and so do my insides. I think, no, surely he wouldn't, yet he says, "See how pretty you feel when I'm done with you," and I realise yes, he would. I think he intends to. Exactly like the gunshot he distracted her with on Tuesday, he has taken the power of this exchange by force and now intends to demonstrate it.
I'm only a second away but time slows when you're in a hurry. I want to scream at Deb to stay still, to postpone the moment he cuts her for as long as possible. To just submit. It's what I want; I know from his feral smile it's what Elway expects. But I am horrified to see in her expression that she would rather die than let him beat her. She hurls abuse at the investigator and twists in his grip, flinging her head and hands towards his makeshift weapon. I think I stop breathing when the sharp edge almost slices her eyelid, but Elway, surprised, whips the bottle away from her instinctually. He's a horrible person but not a killer at heart. He holds the bottle outside of the car where she can't hurt herself or get the weapon, and therefore the power, from him. That's my moment.
Just like in the forest, Deb fights hard. Unlike in the forest, though, Elway won't have time to terrorise and taunt her today. He doesn't even have her clear of the doorframe when I collide with him. The bottle falls and shatters on the kerb. My body smashes his into the corner created by my car and its open door, and when his hand releases her Deb shrinks back into the car, away from the danger. I slam the side of the investigator's head into the roof of my car with brutal force and catch his neck in the crook of my elbow as he slumps, half-conscious. I glance into the car to check on my sister. She seems okay, if a little ruffled and unnerved. No cuts, no blood. She shuffles over the booster seat in the centre of the backseat and climbs out the other side. I apply pressure to either side of Elway's neck rather than waste time trying to block the windpipe. The brain will miss oxygen much more quickly than the lungs will.
"You alright?" I ask tensely, over my shoulder, as Deb closes the other door and comes around, hair getting quickly damp, looking about worriedly.
"Fine," is all she says in response. It's all I need to hear.
"D...exter," Elway mumbles, quickly running out of air and consciousness, eyes lacking focus from the knock to his head. But fight does not require air and consciousness – it is instinctual, driven by the same will as any threatened and frightened animal. He tries to pull away; he slips on the wet ground and his leg slides out from under him. "You... fuck... you..." He reaches back for me, slapping indiscriminately with his palms. I take a page out of my sister's book and bite down on his fingers when they come into range of my mouth. He gasps at the unexpected pain and exhales the word "Fuck!"
I hate that he didn't expect the pain. That he thought he could attack my sister again in broad daylight in a public place and expect not to be in pain as a result. Feeling savage, I stamp my foot down on his lower leg. Something snaps and his scream is chilling. I don't feel particularly affected.
I hold my prey close and ask, delicately, into his ear, "Weren't you the one who said, 'Never one Morgan without the other'? Or did you forget?" He doesn't answer; he sobs desperately and clutches at his awkwardly bent knee as his world darkens and consciousness slides through his fingers. I glance about and see no one watching, but that can quickly change. I nod at my sister and instruct, "Get the trunk open."
Yes, she questions me on the important stuff, but in the heat of the moment she is reactive and she performs automatically whatever needs to be done. She snatches out the keys and in a bleep has the boot of the car popping open. I drag her attacker over and hold him tight as his struggles for freedom and the right to breathe fade. Deb watches my face tensely, terrified of being caught. Like last time we encountered this man, the situation he's forced us into is less than ideal.
"Just fucking go down, you asshole," I hiss at Elway. I jerk my head towards the car, gesturing to Deb. "Tape. Quickly."
Deb hurriedly grabs a roll of packaging tape from the pile of kill supplies in the back of my car. Looking about for do-gooders and threats and normal people in general, she bites off a length of tape. I hold our hostage still for her to cover his mouth. The investigator, who should have done everybody a favour and just died in that stupid forest we left him in, makes a final effort to escape and unexpectedly drives his elbow backwards into my ribs. Momentarily winded, I feel my grip on him loosen, and he shoves away, momentarily empowered by the will to survive. I'm briefly concerned, afraid of him getting away and of everything falling to pieces, but he shoves away from me and falls forward on his ruined leg, and moves straight into the range of Deb's knee, which she brings up sharply into his chin. He's knocked out cold and I catch him under his arms. I bundle him into the trunk of my car beside the equipment I brought with me to kill Vogel, and gather his hands and ankles close together behind his back so my sister can wind the tape around and around them tightly. Deb throws the roll of tape on top of him and I slam the lid closed on his prone form. We stand there, opposite each other, tense and breathing heavily and waiting for the next obstacle. But that's it.
The whole encounter is over in forty seconds, tops.
Shit, that's exhilarating. Not in an entirely good way, but neither is it entirely bad. If it weren't the wrongest thing imaginable – wronger still than kissing her, wronger than being in love with her, wronger than dreaming of sleeping with her, wronger than the thousand times I've broken her heart by being a generally shitty person – I would admit that Debra is the best hunting partner I've ever had and that a dark place inside me would love for this to be our life. I trust her; I can rely on her; she's tough and instinctive. We could kill together.
Except... predator Deb is not my Deb... so I'll never allow myself to actually want that.
The excitement trickles away from me.
"Motherfucker," Deb mutters finally, with the air of someone closing a book. Seemingly oblivious to the rain, she adjusts her shirt, displaced by Elway's yanking on her, and pulls a face of disgust. "Ugh. He fucking touched me."
I try to regulate my breathing and calm down. I try to be less angry but I'm pissed with Elway for daring to reappear and furious with Debra for risking her life and face. I try to be less afraid but this was all much too open, too visible, too brazen. There is no noise, either from inside the trunk or from the street and I assure myself these are good signs. I look side to side but see no one looking through the windows of the accountants or the other businesses along this strip. Each building looks very quiet and closed, as they should be on a Sunday morning. A close shave, yes, but another close shave in a lifelong chain of close shaves that we have once again slipped through by the skin of our teeth.
The steady drizzle continues to set a grey and unassuming backdrop for what just became a very colourful morning.
"I imagine he regrets that choice now," I suggest, leaning against the trunk of my car and focusing on reining in my anger. I start off even-voiced and straightforward: "You could be regretting a choice right now, too, if that bottle had been half an inch closer." And when she can't bring herself to look apologetic, or surprised that the jagged glass was really that close, or even annoyed with my protectiveness, I feel some of my anger filter into my voice, and I hiss, "Jesus, Deb, you nearly lost a fucking eye and I have no idea why. What's wrong with you? Why did – don't bother," I snap at her, interrupting myself when she glares at me and reaches into her pocket. I inhale tightly, annoyed with that stupid photo, and try again to get a grip on myself. "I know I'm not allowed to fucking fight with you. Just... Just don't do that, alright?" The request comes out more desperate than intended. "Don't throw yourself at sharp things, don't provoke danger, don't let your stupid pride get the better of you, and don't..." Scare me. Risk yourself. Leave me. Let anyone hurt you if I'm ever just a second too late to stop it myself. "Just don't."
Deb has one hand in her pocket and the other on the trunk of my car. She raps her fingers rhythmically to a frenetic pace and looks at me with her lips pressed together. She has reasons, a defence, presumably something along the line of 'I knew he'd back off if I fought back', 'I knew you were right behind him' or 'I just wanted him off me' but today she weighs them up for some time and then doesn't share them. She holds them in. Normally she'd try any ammunition in her arsenal. Today she must see that whatever her reasons are, they won't be enough for me.
Finally she just says, "I won't," and stills her fingers. She holds my gaze until my lashes become too heavy with rain and I have to blink. I let my anger with her fall away with the water – life's too short to spend it angry with the people you love.
"Okay, good," I say. "Make sure you don't."
Deb nods. "Thanks. For, you know, coming after me." She doesn't bother insisting she had it all under control. She doesn't try to downplay the trouble she was almost in.
"You would have handled yourself fine without me," I say, a peace-offering, and a sentiment I believe in. "Once he had you out of the car on even ground you would have beaten him senseless and we'd still be hiding a body in the trunk, so it doesn't make much difference either way."
I turn away, returning to the back door of my car and leaning inside briefly to grab the umbrella and the container of wet wipes she came down here for. I shut the door and she gestures irritably at the container, distracted from the intense significance of moments earlier and the heart-stopping terror of the moments before that.
"Where the fuck was that?" she demands. "I looked everywhere." She presses the 'lock' button on the remote to secure the vehicle, and hands me back the keys. I admire her quick recovery from unpleasant surprise and fear. I admire her immediate return to normality after a random attack from her former employer-turned-stalker, in a tiny rainy street, hours away from where we left him last week, drugged and beaten. The situation is so far removed from normal that it could only be our normal, which is perhaps why Deb rolls with it so easily. "I looked in the baby bag thing twice."
"It lives under the passenger seat," I answer patiently, not bothering with the umbrella, falling into step with her on our way back to the cafe where I left my kids. I glance up at the balcony, struck suddenly with the realisation that when I leaned over the railing, I could see my car. Could one of my children just have witnessed me beat and abduct a man in the street? I don't see any faces through the rain and hope curiosity didn't strike them and prompt them to look for Deb or me at any point in the past minute.
"Knives, plastic wrap and unconscious bodies in the trunk, baby wipes under the passenger seat," Deb comments, looping an arm around my neck affectionately and leaning into me as we walk, deliberately weighing me down in that playful way people do; that playful way of hers. I think now that I've shrugged off my displeasure with her, we both feel high with the afterglow of triumph. "Only my brother."
"Knowing half the world is out to kill us and still walking off without her phone," I reply. "Only my sister."
Deb frowns back at my car over her shoulder, blinking water out of her eyes. "How the fuck did he find us?"
I have no answer for her. I cannot work it out for myself. For him to turn up at the Bennett place would have surprised me plenty, but at least I could have rationalised that as a private investigator, discovering the address of my stepfamily would not have been all that difficult once he learned that that's where we have been. But here, at a random cafe we didn't plan to come to, far from Miami where we left him... I can't explain that. Finally I say to Deb, "I'll ask him later and let you know."
"I'm sure I don't want to know how you'll get him talking." She shakes her head and water falls about her in droplets, but every drop is quickly replaced with fresh ones from the sky. "What are you going to do with him?"
"For now?" I ask. I reach for the door of the cafe and hold it open for my sister. "Leave him there to appreciate the shitstorm he's thrown himself into. After..." I shrug. "Haven't decided."
We go back inside the cafe and my kids are safely where I left them. Cody is unworried by my brief absence, or my rain-soaked clothes and Deb's dripping hair, as he gratefully accepts the cleansing wipes I offer. Harrison is more restless, or perhaps just lacks Cody's complete ability to ignore developments he does not like or care for. My little son demands to know what happened to the bad man.
"He came to Aunt Deb's house and was mean," he reports seriously to his brother, who nods with mild interest but allows it mostly to go right over his head. "He called her nasty names. He wouldn't go away. Daddy had to throw him away."
Like body parts in a garbage bag into the ocean. If only I had already.
"Who's this?" Cody asks, only half-listening.
"The mean man," Harrison repeats, irritated by his brother's ignorance. Deb takes his hands and wipes his arms to clear up the pink residue.
"Don't worry about him. Your dad made him go away. He's not coming back," she assures him. I return to my breakfast and glance up at Astor. She's watching me evenly. When she sees me looking at her, she holds my gaze for a moment before turning her attention back to her pancakes. The coolness in those eyes that look just like my late wife's make my stomach clench again with fear. Oh, God. She saw. Or did she? I'm suddenly not hungry, and lower my forkful of egg and sausage before it reaches my mouth. Stupid me, thinking I'd gotten away with that! Like anything has ever been so simple.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I see why my sister likes this word so much. Sometimes there just isn't a better one.
Astor knows.
Astor saw.
For a moment I cannot breathe. I have to remind my chest muscles how to do it. Draw air in. Express CO2. Draw air in...
"Well, that's good," my stepdaughter says offhandedly, cutting up her final pancake. She seems to concentrate on that, but I hear the significance in her voice as she adds, "I guess that must have made you really angry, Dexter, seeing someone treat your sister like that."
"It did," I agree carefully. Shit. Shit. I hope that means she saw Elway attack Deb first, so she knows it wasn't unwarranted. Regardless of the facts, I never want my children to actually believe that I am a psycho and a murderer. Astor pushes her food around her plate, deliberating. She definitely saw. How much, I'm not sure. She doesn't direct any of her suspicion or uncertainty towards Deb – do I take from that fact that she didn't see Deb knee Elway in the face and bind and gag him with tape? Or do I take that to mean she thinks, as a fellow eldest sibling, that whatever just went down was my responsibility to manage and therefore Deb's actions are just a faultless extension of my own failings? I'm not sure.
"It would probably make you act out of character," she suggests. I allow my gaze to rove over the others at the table. My sister and sons aren't really listening to Astor and me, or at least haven't noticed that she and I are having a totally different conversation than the one it sounds like we're having.
I feel like it's twenty years ago and I'm sitting in my first car and fifteen-year-old Astor is fifteen-year-old Deb, a single utterance away from knowing way too much about me. Of course I can't let Astor's life dissolve into what Deb's became, but I still find myself treading dangerously when I say, "I don't think it's out of character for me to respond to threats made against my family."
Astor considers this while I watch her. She could out me. She could stand up and throw a tantrum and denounce me for what she just saw me doing. Tantrums are events I associate most closely with Astor, though it's been years since I saw her in the throes of one. I think I've seen Deb in tantrum mode more recently than Astor.
"The 'mean man' sounds like a dickbag of a human being. Is he?" she asks, and her intense eyes flick up to me.
And I feel another layer of connection with Rita's eldest, her bravest child. Astor and I share a sense of justice. Was he bad? Did he deserve it? Is a good person safer because you interfered? Then go right ahead.
I breathe more easily.
"He's a complete and utter dickbag of a human being," I confirm.
"Like Olivia's mom's jerk boyfriend?" Like the man I beat up to protect Astor's innocent friend, and Astor by extension?
"Like him. Maybe worse," I say. "If he wakes up terrified and bound with a broken leg and nose on the side of a highway somewhere with a note pinned to his shirt reminding him to keep his distance from me and my family, it would still be more than he deserves." Deb glances at me sidelong, wondering why I'm speaking so specifically, but I keep my attention on Astor. "He-"
"Dex," Deb interrupts firmly. "What are you-"
But Astor can hear this.
"No, Deb," I say, cutting my sister off, "he shot at you. He left threats on your doorstep. He scarred you." The worst thing of all – the fact that she'll bear evidence of Elway's interference in her life forever. Cody is listening now. Scars. "If he crossed the road in front of my car I don't think I'd stop."
Cody is interested after hearing that, and starts pestering Deb about who this person is that we're all talking about, and whether he can see her scar. I'm not surprised when she refuses, considering where the burn is. Harrison is placated by Deb's assurance that the mean man is gone, and goes back to his breakfast. Astor, though, regards me for quite some time. Slowly, eventually, she nods. I sense approval.
"Then I hope that's more than he receives," she agrees. "It sounds like it'd even be worth accelerating if you ever get handed that opportunity."
She goes back to eating. I smile, but inside I am sighing massively and throwing myself on the ground to demonstrate my exaggerated relief. Astor saw, but she doesn't know; she saw me protecting my family and she connects with that drive in a positive way. Astor, I realise, would probably have done the very same in that situation. When her father hurt Rita, Astor called the police on Paul – she's not above hurting people to protect better people, though her methods have been very different from mine. She would never approve of most of what I've done, but she should never know about that. I like that she was able to lift away one layer of who I am and that the layer directly underneath the amiable devoted dad is still one that she can love and admire – the protective brother and father.
After breakfast I hurry with my giggling, adorable family to my car through the rain. It's a totally different run than the one of half an hour earlier, even though technically I'm still running towards Elway. I listen out for sounds but he must be still pretty groggy and the rain is loud on the roof and trunk of the car. Deb, the eternal pessimist, is nervous, I can tell, but I pretend like there's nothing amiss, and help Cody and Harrison over the glass shards beside their door. We pile into the car and when I put the key the ignition, Astor leans through the gap between the front seats to turn the radio right up and we listen to Set Fire to the Rain at the highest volume Cody will allow without whinging. It's still loud enough to block the unpleasant muffled moaning noise in the trunk, for which I am grateful, because after a little while Deb starts to relax. I think she starts to believe my calm smile. I think she hears what I'm not saying: It'll be alright. I'll get rid of him. We got away with it. We'll be alright.
At the Bennett house, Deb and Astor unbuckle Harrison and run for the house. I muck about with turning off the air conditioner, rearranging the many small bits and pieces that accumulate in the console, anything I can do to look busy while Cody undoes his own seatbelt. I just want all the kids inside with Deb for thirty seconds, giving me time to open the trunk, inject Elway with what's left of Deb's M99 and close it down again.
But Cody doesn't get out of the car. He says, "What time are you leaving today?"
Leaving? I don't ever want to leave. But I have shit to do in Miami, preparations for a life where this weekend's golden happiness is the norm.
"In a couple of hours," I say reluctantly. I hesitate on the next sentiment, and then choose to say it anyway, because I think Cody should know. "I don't want to go. I'd rather stay with you guys and Deb until Wednesday. And then even longer."
"But you have things to do," Cody finishes knowingly. I turn in my seat to look at him. Over the music that's still playing, I hear, dimly, Elway's pitiful sounds. I hope Cody doesn't notice. His big brown eyes, so deep with expression, hold mine.
"My job, the things I have to do; they're not more important than you," I tell him firmly. "That's all just life stuff, stuff that has to be done. You, your sister, your brother, and my sister – you are everything I have and I love you. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you and for them, alright? If I could totally change my life to make it easier for us all to be together and more often, I would. And I will." I will. "Things are going to be different, Cody. Things are going to be better, for all of us."
My stepson processes this, big warm eyes never wavering from my face. I gather he is deliberating something huge – probably whatever he was trying to gather the courage to discuss this morning in the car.
"Can I talk to you about something really important?" he asks finally. "Before you leave? Now, maybe?"
I hesitate again, more obviously this time. It's not because I don't want to talk to Cody. Half of my thoughts are with the bound and gagged hostage I have in the boot of my car, and I am aware that his sounds, though muffled by the tape and partly drowned by the sound of steady rain on the car, may not continue to go unnoticed if someone happens past. I know the smartest thing to do would be to send Cody inside so he doesn't see me drugging my victim. To protect myself. But by then this moment could be lost. Cody has spent all morning gathering the bravery to broach this topic, whatever it is, with me. If I turn him down now the conversation might be lost, too. And I want to have this conversation.
My stepson's need to have me all to myself for a few minutes to talk outweighs my need for cautiousness. When did that happen?
"Sure," I say with a smile. "I can do now. But let's go for a walk, hey?"