1:00
Setting: "The Dark Defender"

I drop my sock on the dock as I dip my foot into the water, and I glance at Lundy, then away again. He's right: the water's a relief. It's really fucking humid today.

And I feel a calm settle over me, siphon away the panic that was building in my core. When we arrived here, as I stepped onto the dock, I flashed back to that little lit walkway Rudy constructed for me, to how happily, and blindly, I walked onto that boat. To him putting that fucking ring on my finger. For a microsecond I forgot where I was, and why, as reality dissolved around me. Lundy broke me out of it when he asked me what was wrong, and in that moment I was too confused to know. I felt thoroughly unnerved as I told him it was nothing and followed him out here, as the world dribbled back into focus.

Yet I was here yesterday, and I was fine. I had my breakfast on the other end of the marina, at a table a couple yards off the water. I sat there for forty minutes, just appreciating that I could finally do it. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me today.

Then again that was before I knew that our serial killer might have his boat moored here.

And that was when I still had hope for last night.

I exhale, wanting a distraction, start looking around for the Slice of Life, but my brother's slip's all the way down at the furthest end of the dock, and I can't see it from here. Oh, well.

"You said your dad kept his boat here?" Lundy asks suddenly. I don't know how long we've sat in silence. Maybe only a minute.

"Yeah." I glance back at him, then swivel to point behind us. "It used to be moored down there somewhere, if I remember." I snort softly. "It was called Lazy Sun-Days. I think Mom named it." I go silent as I prop my palm back against the wood, look away. The memories are bittersweet.

"Spend a lot of time on it growing up?"

When I look back at him he's gazing at me with interest, as he pulls what looks like a bag of trail mix out of his paper sack. "Yeah. I guess." I shrug. "Dad spent more time out here with Dex than with me though."

He ignores my barb, or maybe he doesn't notice it. "What'd you do?" he asks, pouring a handful of the mix into his hand.

"I don't know." I glance away, out at the bay, at all the sail boats, at the shoreline of Indian Creek. "Sometimes we went up the canal or out to the ocean, went fishing, went swimming." I smile. "Mom used to lay out on the deck and chain smoke and read magazines while she tanned. She had this hat…" I gesture toward my head, but when I look at him it draws me out of the memory, and I feel a little hollow for it. "I don't know. It was a long time ago." I'm not smiling anymore. "After Mom died more and more the boat started feeling like a father-son thing, and I stopped going." Like pretty much everything else.

I sigh, but keep the thought private. Because I'm too old and Dad's too dead to still be bitter about that.

Though from the way Lundy's looking at me, I think he caught my drift anyway. "Do either of you still have the boat?"

I shake my head. "It was barely new in the 70s. Dexter held onto it for a long time, but eventually even his analness wasn't enough to keep it usable. I think he was planning to restore it before he gave up and got rid of it, ended up getting a new boat instead. That was several years ago now." I think. "I was still on patrol, so probably 2002 or something."

He fishes around in his hand, extracts an M&M. "Do you ever go out boating with him?" he asks, then eats it.

I shake my head again. "Not in a long time. I've probably only been on it five or six times since he got it."

"Why?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I never really think about it, and Dex isn't exactly prone to spontaneous invitations. I think his boat is like his little sanctuary." As is his apartment, which I've thoroughly invaded.

Despite the fucked-up circumstances, I get a perverse sense of pleasure from the thought, because deep down I'm apparently still ten years old, giggling as I wrecked my brother's carefully constructed spaces.

I don't know who used to get more pissed off about that: Dad or Dex…

"What about you, Agent Lundy?" I ask as I throw my hair back behind my shoulders, not wanting to think about that. "Your dad take you boating when you were a kid?"

"Yes." He smiles in that thin way of his. "He used to take my brother and I on camping trips every summer. My mother never had much of an interest in nature, so she left us to it."

I didn't know he had a brother. I file that away. "How long would you go for?"

He shrugs. "A week or two, here and there. We'd spend all day fishing or hiking around, then cook up what we caught."

I wonder what he was like then, what his dad was like. It's hard to imagine him not in wool. "Sounds nice," I say.

"It was," he says. "I was lucky to have that kind of time with my father. He was always happiest when he was out on his boat."

"Mine too." Not that I was invited out enough to experience it .

Again I push the thought down. "Got a boat back in Washington?" I ask.

"Hardly." He smiles, but less happily. "Not anymore, anyway. These days if it doesn't fit into two suitcases, it's not coming with me. I miss my weekend fishing trips though."

I think of the mountain of random shit I've accumulated over the years that's currently sitting in a storage unit a couple miles from here, and I think of Lundy hopping between airports with nothing but a pile of suits and two changes of shoes, and maybe a couple photographs. It makes me oddly sad. "But you have a house or something back home, right?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I've been renting out my house for a couple years now. I don't spend enough time in DC to maintain the upkeep." He eats the rest of the trail mix in his palm, then reaches for the bag again, pours out another handful. "Want some?" he asks, offering it.

I shake my head. "No, thanks."

He nods and sets the bag back onto the dock, looks out at the water as he munches.

I look away from him too, though I don't want to. Watch a yacht as it speeds for the causeway. I want to ask him more, probe a little deeper into his life, into whatever that sadness is I keep feeling under the layers of Mr. Serenity, but I keep my mouth shut. Because even if it was my business, I have a feeling he'd just evade my questions, like he usually does.

Because I think he lost his wife, and I think there was a whole life he had to leave behind after she was gone. And I wonder sometimes if maybe he recognized my running because he's been doing the same since she died, chasing serial killers from city to city.

"How are you feeling now?" he asks, a little while after the boat's disappeared under the bridge. He's still eating the trail mix.

"Better," I answer honestly, then take a breath. "Thanks for making me…" I grope for a word. I don't know. "Stop."

He smiles. "No problem."

"What about you?" I ask. "Feel any cooler?"

"No." He shakes his head, makes a face. "Even the water's hot here."

I snort. "Your fault for wearing a three-piece suit in Miami."

"I'm an FBI agent. It's all a part of the mystique."

"If you fucking say so."

He laughs softly, eats more of the trail mix.

And now that I'm looking at him again I want to try to phrase a question, because I find him as interesting as he is impenetrable, but he speaks before I can. "So tell me about this boyfriend of yours," he says.

I bark a laugh, surprised by the change in direction. "What do you want to know?" I ask.

He sets the baggie down. It's now mostly empty, besides a pile of oats and raisins at the bottom. "His name."

"Gabriel," I say. I'm still smiling, though I don't know whether it's because I'm thinking of him or because I'm telling Lundy.

"Last name?"

My brows pinch. "Why?"

He shrugs. "Just being nosey."

"Bosque," I answer, trying to find a reason on his face, but Lundy's expression is as equable as ever: smooth as the fucking bay.

"Where's he from?"

"Homestead, like 50 miles south of here. His family's from El Salvador."

"So he's a local."

"Yeah." I'm still studying him. "Another happy fucking Floridian."

He smiles, and I find myself wishing all the more that I could pry open his head and hear his thoughts.

"What's with all the questions?" I ask. "Or are you looking to go double on him?"

"I told you. I'm just being nosey." His tone is perfectly innocent, and I don't know how to interpret it.

Shaking my head, I glance away, squint against the sun. My foot's starting to fall asleep, so I sit up, wince as I lay my leg flat against the dock, thunk my other foot back into the water.

But now that the topic's broached, and now that I'm looking away from him, I find myself wanting to say more. Because for some reason whenever I talk to Lundy I almost feel like I could tell him anything. "It's strange," I say, "seeing someone after what happened to me. I feel like I'm holding my breath, waiting for him to transform into a gargoyle or something."

"And has he?"

"No. Not yet, anyway." I glance at him, then away again. "I made up an excuse to go back to his place after our first date and I ended up sweeping it when he went to the bathroom, just to assure myself there wasn't another industrial freezer hidden in his kitchen. No surprise there was nothing there. But I couldn't stop myself from digging through his stuff again last night."

Lundy's quiet, and I look back at him after a beat. "Do you trust him anymore now that you haven't found anything?" he asks.

I don't even have to think about it. "No," I say.

"Is there anything he could do to prove to you that he's not whatever you suspect him of being?"

Again I don't have to think. "No," I repeat, feeling a little defeated about it.

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, calmly, "Give it time," he says. He reaches for the deli paper with his sandwich in it, takes out the other half. "If you don't mind the advice," he adds.

"Yeah," I say, letting out a breath. "You're probably right."

He smiles at me before crumpling the paper, then starts working through the sandwich. With its damn crust-less bread.

As he eats I can't help but imagine him carefully cutting off the crusts and dividing it along the diagonal, as he stands in some spartan, FBI-standard-issued hotel room listening to like NPR or PBS or something. Packing himself a lunch for work. I wonder if it's accurate and, if it is, how long he's been like that. Maybe forever.

"What about you?" I ask eventually, after he's gotten halfway through it. "Got anymore social appointments on your calendar?"

"No." He shakes his head. "Thankfully I don't have anyone else here playing matchmaker for me."

I want to ask him about his wife again, but can't, decide to make a joke instead. "What, you mean you're not on your way to go meet that yogi master?"

He makes a face. "No."

I laugh and he snorts, takes another bite. And then we lapse back into silence. I start absently massaging a knot in my shin, as my thoughts float in and out of focus.

Last night. Gabriel.

We never did manage to get beyond the cuddle phase, despite my intentions. I laid awake for over an hour after we stopped, after I stopped it, eventually couldn't keep myself from rummaging through his shit looking for— what? I don't know. Another woman's things? Piles of bath salts? His little serial killer black book? And of course he fucking caught me.

And I finally brought up the Ice Truck Killer. He said he'd never heard of him. Didn't ask me anything else about him, last night or this morning before I left for work. I don't know if I believe him, but I don't know why he'd lie about it either. I don't know if I'm just being a self-absorbed, paranoid sack of shit with him, or why he's putting up with it. I can't help wondering what he wants.

Beside me, Lundy finishes his sandwich, lets his hands settle back on his lap.

I don't know. I'm having dinner with him tonight. If he doesn't bring it up, I'm just not going to fucking talk about it. Even if he does bring it up, I'm just not going to fucking talk about it.

I stop massaging my leg, take a breath of muggy air.

I wonder if this really is the marina where the Butcher keeps his boat. Wonder if I could've been having breakfast with him on the dock somewhere nearby. Or if maybe he's got a house or a condo somewhere close by with a private slip. It's disturbing to think that Dexter could've run into him here, especially with his penchant for going out on the water at night. I should talk to him about it.

Then again he'd probably brush me off. If I told him how relatively wide the net the algae threw ended up being, I'm sure he'd tell me he'd have to move his boat down to the Everglades to be sure he wouldn't run into him on the water.

That doesn't really make me feel any better about it though.

I pull up my knee, exhale.

Since we're not talking anymore, I'm starting to get impatient.

And, frankly, hungry. Gabriel made me a protein shake for breakfast, but it's long since digested. I wasn't kidding about that pork sandwich…

"I can sense your tension from here."

I look over at Lundy, instantly feeling somewhere between nettled and amused. "Are we ever gonna get going?" I ask.

He glances at me, then checks his wrist. "It's been thirteen minutes, Officer Morgan," he says.

I feel a tick of exasperation. "How long do we have to sit here like this?"

He's back to looking out at the water. "I don't know," he says after a beat, as if he really has to think about it.

My mouth opens as I look at him, several responses coming to mind. Eventually I let them all go with a sigh. "What if I went to the guy in charge of the marina and started talking to him while you enjoy the rest of your lunch?"

When he looks at me again there's something soft in his gaze that almost makes me regret what I just said. "Go ahead."

But it's not quite enough to make me stay. "Okay," I say.

I pull my foot up from the water, realize as I reach for it that I can't exactly put my sock on yet. Feel somewhat defeated as I roll back on my haunches. Meanwhile Lundy hasn't moved, is still staring serenely out at the bay.

"Have you always been like this?" I find myself asking, as I fruitlessly try to wipe some of the wet off with my hands.

"No."

I stop and look at him, slightly surprised by his frankness.

"It took a long time for me to realize the importance of making sure to take some time for oneself."

Again I feel the pull of some deep, internal magnetism. "What if I don't like what I feel when I'm alone with myself?" I ask quietly, before I can stop myself.

"Then I'd say it's all the more important."

I almost want to put my foot back in the water, let him convince me to try his meditation, or whatever the fuck it is he's doing, but, "I can't," I say. "Not right now, anyway."

"I can respect that."

"Thanks." And even though my foot still isn't any drier than it was thirty seconds ago, I shove it into the sock, grab my boot and shove that on too, zip it up. Push to my feet. Pull my pant leg over the boot and smooth it out.

"Alright, I'll be down the dock," I say as I straighten.

He nods. "I'll catch up with you in seventeen minutes."

I nod too, and he looks back at the water. I follow his eye line, at the dollop of tree-covered land sitting in the bay between here and Indian Creek, or maybe at the skyline of Miami Beach from way beyond it. Wonder what he's thinking about, or if he's even thinking about anything at all. Wonder what that would be like, and if I'll ever know, ever be able to come to some revelation about inner peace like he clearly has.

And then I shake my head and turn to walk down the dock. Leave him to sit there, as my foot starts to itch from all the moisture my sock is absorbing.