Next month, a grisly discovery was made off the coast of Miami. Rita wouldn't have thought anything of it, had a pair of officers not knocked on her door a mere week later. Two officers she happened to recognize.

"Debra! What a plea-," and that was as far as she got before the man standing beside Debra, a rather large, stout man with creased wrinkles around his eyes and a droop lining his cheeks flashed his silver badge. The name read 'Angel Batista'. "Oh, um. Is this-?" A nod from Debra confirmed that this was, indeed, official business. "Oh, I… Come inside, of course." Debra and Batista shared a look, one of those looks that cops so often shared, and stepped inside.

While the all-business workers-of-the-state took a seat on her beloved couch, Rita trudged around her counter and into the open-air kitchen. Just to prepare a cup of coffee for them. It was, after all, almost noon. And noon called for coffee.

What she failed to mention, however, was that this would also let her collect her thoughts. She knew Debra. The sister of Dexter - of her boyfriend. Maybe, sometime, she'd be more than that (maybe an in-law?), but that wasn't important. Right now, Debra was a cop, not a sister. Her face was stuck in a rigid, hard imitation of one of the guys up on mount Rushmore. She'd be much prettier if she smiled, but Rita didn't really have any say in that.

Then, one might ask, why in the world was she giving Rita this face? And on her couch, too? It didn't make sense. Unless this wasn't about Rita at all, but instead-,

The echo of a name she hadn't heard in a month scuttled through her mind unbidden. She hadn't thought about him in so long. Could she honestly say his name gave her anything but goosebumps and shivers? That his mere mention made her feel anything but shame, no at their relationship, but at how relieved she was, knowing he was gone? This… this must be about him. Had they found him? Maybe he'd gone to Kentucky, or Mexico, or-,

No. That wasn't it. Rita was no fool. Debra was in the homicide department, a transfer she had earned through blood, sweat and tears. She wasn't here to tell Rita that someone had seen Paul in Stockholm.

The reason she was there made Rita's hair stand on edge.

She wanted to hear it. She had to. Otherwise, her heart would remain empty. Bereft of mourning, of feeling.

"H-, how can I help you?" she asked, taking a seat as she placed a tray filled with coffee and cookies on the table. Batista glanced between her, the tray, and Debra, finally grabbing a cup of warm, invigorating coffee. Debra didn't take any. All she did was give Rita a long, hard look that made her feel like the suspect on a late-night cop show nobody had ever heard of. "I-, um, if this is about Paul, I'd just… I'd like to see his b-, body. Make sure it's him. Or-, or are you sure?"

They shared a glance again. Were they telepathic or something? Rita couldn't tell.

"-Miss Benett," oh, that wasn't good, "when did you last see your ex-husband?" So Batista asked. As if she could remember. No, hold on, she could very well remember when that was. It wasn't a special day by any means, but…

"Yes. It was… the day before he was reported missing. We'd met to discuss his lawsuit against me," Rita said, absently surveying a cookie in her grasp. Lemon curd. Not her favourite, but it could last ages. "So-, so this is about him? Have you found him yet? Is he still going to press-,"

"Rita," Debra said, nailing Rita to the wall with an icy-cold stare. "We found him. You don't have to identify his body. It's him. You don't have to be scared of him anymore." Is that what that sudden reassuring smile was meant to be? Calming? Make her feel better, knowing that the plight of her adult life was-, was dead?... Rita choked back a sob. Debra's smile grew an increment wider, surely believing that Rita's tears were of joy, of gratitude. As if she could ever celebrate someone's death.

"We just need to ask a few things," Batista said, putting down his now half-drained cup of Joe. "See, the way we found him, was…"

Here, Debra decided to take the reins again. "Do you know if Paul ever… killed anyone?" -Huh? "You were his wife. Did he ever tell you about doing something to someone, or if he wanted to hurt someone, or…" What in the world was she asking? Paul was hardly the face of Virtuous Anonymous, but he'd never done anything like that as far as Rita knew. Far from a good guy, but he'd never kill someone.

"N-, no, that's-, he'd never," Rita defended meekly, feeling how her face was starting to scrunch together in loss and guilt. He was dead. He was really dead, and now they were asking her if Paul was a murderer?...

"Are you sure?" Batista asked, leaning in closer to her. "Are you absolutely sure he never killed anyone?"

She steeled her spirits. Took a deep breath. "-Yes. He never killed anyone."

Debra gave out a soft "shit" before gnawing down on a fingernail. If she was going to use her teeth anyway, why not eat a cookie? "Okay. Sure. He didn't kill anyone. So why the hell…"

"Why what, Debra?" Rita asked, suddenly feeling meek and little. "Why is this so important?" Debra's gaze anxiously wandered about the room, content with settling on anything that wasn't Rita. "Officer Batista?" The older man acted the very same. Looking anywhere but at her. "Just-, just tell me! Where did you find his-, his body?!"

Debra sighed deeply. "Have-, you've seen the news, right? And you've seen the news about the latest killer to hit Miami?" Rita frowned absently. "The Bay Harbour Butcher. Those nineteen victims." Why was she telling her this? Why-, "Paul was one of them."

...What?

A great, heavy lump settled in Rita's chest. Paul was-, was one of those bodies? Butchered? Stuffed inside one of those garbage bags she saw on the television? Thrown into the ocean like-, like garbage?... That heavy undefined lump, like an oversized tumour of wrong and bad seemed to press its way through her oesophagus, up her throat and out through her mouth. "-What?"

Debra frowned. "We-, we don't know. All we know-," she said, her voice and facing turning monotone and report-like, "is that his body was recovered among 13 killers and five suspected murderers." That told Rita exactly zero. "We have good reason to believe that the killer - the Bay Harbour Butcher, only killed other killers. Usually, people who would likely kill again. Or who simply slipped through the cracks in the system." She scoffed, clearly showing no empathy for a killer who, by all means, seemed to be doing a good thing.

Batista picked up where Debra left. "So, then, what the hell was your former husband doing down there if he never killed anyone?"

Rita shook her head. She didn't know. She couldn't possibly know. This was-, this was a serial killer they were talking about, how in the world was she supposed to know how they thought? They might as well be aliens, aliens she wanted exactly nothing to do with. "I-, I don't know. He wasn't a killer, he just-,"

"Rita." Debra cut through it all, took a hold of Rita's hand, and pressed it gently in hers. "You don't have to defend him anymore. He's gone, you can tell us what he did."

Rita shook her head. "No, that's-, Paul did a lot of terrible things, but he never killed anyone!"

The more she said it, the more certain she grew. Paul wasn't a killer. He didn't have it in him, never did.

Batista and Debra shared a final glance before they both stood up. Batista affixed her with a worried look. "Alright, that's all we had to know. Just-, just think about it, alright? If you saw something weird around the time he disappeared, or heard someone say something strange, or just had something strange happen to you…" Batista gave a calm, comforting smile. "Just give us a ring, won't you?"

And with that, the two officers of the law left, leaving Rita with a pot full of coffee and a head full of questions.

The funeral took place two weeks later and was attended solely by Rita, her two children, and a certain Dexter Morgan. Rita did not cry at the funeral, but she cried in private when no one could see. Dexter was apathetic at best. During the entire happening, the only emotion that showed on his face was a stunning confusion. Not at the mystery of Paul's death, not at the great question of what he was doing at the bottom of the Bay, no, it was all about how Rita reacted to it. She cried, and he stared at her, dumbfounded. He just didn't get it.

In some way, neither did she. Why should she mourn a man like Paul? A wife-beating druggie who hurt her and threatened Dexter and truly, sincerely loved his kids?

Somehow, Dexter didn't understand this. Being in a church didn't seem to make him feel anything out of the ordinary. A man he used to know was dead, and he didn't seem to care in the least.

"I don't think Paul will be a problem anymore."

-Why did that pop up again? Why did she have to think about that at this moment?... Dexter had said that, what, a month and a half ago? The morning after Paul disappeared. Sure, he was only reported missing on the day after Ricky asked after him, but going by how tenacious Ricky was about finding him, there was no doubt that Paul had disappeared on that day. The day Dexter stood her up. The day Dexter sent her a voice message long after dark. Telling her Paul wouldn't be a problem anymore.

...No. No, that was-, she couldn't possibly be thinking that-, that Dexter?... No. No way. She'd be a little keener to believe it if Paul hadn't been found among those other bodies. If his death wasn't done by a certain butcher.

Believing that Dexter somehow did Paul in was the same as believing that Dexter was, somehow, the Bay Harbour Butcher. And that just didn't sit right.

She loved Dexter, and Dexter loved her. She knew that, didn't she?

...Then, if he loved her, was it so strange to believe he'd do something about her abusive ex? The abuse ex who threatened her with legal action for her justifiable self-defence? Why, on paper, if she was to look at it that way… Whoever killed Paul might have even seemed heroic. Taking out the trash that was Paul.

-The world was not so black-and-white. Paul was more than an abusive husband, and she could not condone his death. If she met whoever killed him…

She glanced over at Dexter, sitting at her side, gazing absently at the television screen. Eyes distant, he seemed to be elsewhere entirely.

...She wouldn't just take his existence lying down. She had to do something about it.

She didn't know what, but she'd do it.

It was at this point that Rita started looking for the signs. What signs, you may ask? Why… that Dexter wasn't who he said he was. That there was something off about him. It was painful to think about, painful to force herself to notice, but once she did… It was so obvious she barely understood how she had let it pass her by. His smile was never natural. Every time he gave a smile, something so common for him, it seemed strained and strange. His eyes never smiled. They were cold, callous and calculating. There, but distant.

Before it all, when Dexter looked at her, she felt like a deer in the headlights of love. Struck by his charm and wit, smitten by the warmth she deluded herself into seeing in his eyes. That had all changed. When he looked at her, she was not an equal. She was a rabbit, small and scared and trembling. He was a wolf, towering over her, grey hairs stained with red. Teeth dripping with red. Eyes filled with cold, frozen red.

He wasn't human. She knew that now.

Her suspicions seemed more and more well-founded by the day. Every date they had, every moment she spent in the same room as that man, she became more assured. He didn't smile, he sneered. He didn't gaze longingly, he studied her, as man does a bacteria. He didn't love. At least, she didn't think so. Maybe he did. She was starting to hope he didn't. If he loved her… if he considered her to be someone worth killing for, he might not go down easily.

Sometimes, Debra would send her a voice-mail to ask her if there was anything she was withholding, some detail about Paul that she hadn't told the presses yet. There was nothing.

Paul was innocent. Among the 19 bodies recovered, he was the only one lacking a reason. The outliner. The exception. And why was that? Of course, Rita had her theories. The most obvious one was that Dexter killed Paul since Paul was a deeply aggravating individual. He knew how to rile people up, and if Dexter got riled up by him… Was she even surprised that he did something like that? All humans have emotions, and who could be more aggressive than a serial-killer?

...Thinking about serial-killers and Dexter in the same vein still didn't sit right with her. Still, she had no choice.

For a while, she thought of confronting Debra about it. Asking her if she knew what Dexter was, or if what Rita thought was truly how it was. Ask her if she knew what Dexter did on those days when nobody could find him. -In the end, she decided against it. How could she possibly tell Debra that her brother might be a psychopath? Even worse, a murderous psychopath?

No, talking to one of Dexter's closest friends and family about what Dexter (might be) was out of the question. That left her with only one option.

Talk to his enemies.

She had noticed the car pretty quickly, all things considered. At night, it followed Dexter wherever he went. A modern car housing a vulture-eyed man who always seemed to see into her house, right at Dexter. He never met her eye. Always focused on Dexter. And when Dexter left, so did he. She didn't know who he was, couldn't know if he was a good or bad man, but… Considering the kind of man Dexter seemed to be, he couldn't be all too bad.

Interestingly enough, ever since the car and the man started following Dexter, he became more… jittery. Jumpy. On-edge, wide-eyed and sharp-toothed. The man in the car had an effect on Dexter.

Or maybe it wasn't the man himself, but what he kept Dexter from doing?

-She couldn't know. She really couldn't. All of this, all of these things about Dexter, it was all in her head, right? She was having weird thoughts and weird feelings and it just happened to go out over Dexter. He hadn't done anything, after all. All he had against him was a weird message and a weird look in his eye that made Rita feel weird.

This would all change depending on how the man with the vulture-eye saw Dexter. She had to know.

He'd set her straight, tell her she was being an idiot… She needed that. Someone to disagree with her.

"The hell do you want?" he asked politely once he rolled down the car window, which he of course only did after she knocked three times. He probably hadn't expected her to try and communicate with him, morse or otherwise, but… here she was. She had to talk to him. She was determined, and he was right here. He glanced inside her house. "You're comfortable leaving the creep alone with your kids?"

Rita followed his eyes inside her home. Dexter with Astor and Cody.

-As strange as Dexter was, she knew he wouldn't do anything to Astor and Cody. They loved him, and in his own strange, inhuman way, he seemed to love them, too. "-Yes. I am."

Doakes stared down the petite woman who was probably about to confront him about his following her boyfriend. Maybe that freak tried sending her out as a substitute for himself, but Doakes knew Dexter better than that. That snake-man wouldn't let his pretty little girlfriend so much as suspect that he was up to anything unsavoury. What he hadn't expected, however, was that she would respond to his agitation with somewhat of a genuine answer. He readjusted his expectations. Narrowed his eyes. "Right."

She took a deep breath. Her toothpick rib-cage filled with meek determination, and she returned his gaze. "I want you to tell me about Dexter." Doakes cocked an eyebrow. "I-, I know he isn't… normal."

That got his attention. A toothy grin split his face. "You finally noticed?" He gave a bellow of a laugh, "Man, and I thought I was alone!"

Somehow, this didn't make her happy. She clutched the hem of her skirt closely and glanced down at the dark pavement below. "I… I don't know. I don't know what I've seen, what I think, and-, just tell me about him. What you've seen of him. What you think." She bit her lip, face darkening. "What he is."

Doakes grinned again. "He's a damn freak's what he is." She opened her mouth to object, but Doakes shushed her before she could speak a word. "Ain't human. Never been. I've seen my fair share. I've seen war, I've seen death. But what's in Dexter…" For once, Doakes' amused smile faltered. "It's like looking in a fucking funhouse mirror. Everything in me, all I've done… I ain't proud of it." He turned back to Rita, eyes sharp and cold. "But Dexter?" A smile. "He wears it like a damn medal."

She swallowed, lips pulled tight. If the answer wasn't to her liking, she could leave. He didn't need her help to keep tabs on Dexter.

"What-," she glanced off into the distance, "what can I do to help?..."

"-Huh?" Doakes hadn't meant to make such a sound, but… he was genuinely dumbfounded. Her? Help him? That was… wow. A girlfriend. Helping her boyfriend's enemy nail his ass to the wall. A strange situation, but in this case? Very helpful. Doakes leaned out of the window, looked up and down the road, took a glance into the girlfriend's little house… "Alright, listen. If you suspect him of the same crime as I do…" he waited for her to nod before continuing, "-then, what I need you to do is find evidence. Something conclusive. Write down at what times you couldn't reach him, on which nights he was gone without a trace."

Rita nodded, clearly jutting his words down in her head. "-And?"

"And…" Doakes said, a little plan forming in his head. He grinned. "Here's what I need you to do…"

She listened, nodded, and prepared herself to do what Doakes told her.

It wouldn't be easy, but she had to do it.

If it didn't pan out, at least she knew Dexter was innocent.

Until then, she wouldn't be able to sleep well at night.