This was my chance, I realized. If I was strong, if I was quick, if he was deeply enough asleep, I could strangle him.

But he deserved it even less than my own family had.

Not my family. Neither were related to me by blood.

For one moment, I let myself forget it all. I was so tired. I could barely think anymore. I was warm, and the bed was soft. And Morgan, this man who still held me, had not harmed me. I had nearly killed him, was considering it only a minute ago, yet he had not taken advantage of me when I had been helpless.

It was morning. For the first time in days, I saw sunlight as it seeped in under the window shade. I squeezed my eyes shut, glad for it but wanting to sleep again, to sink into that safe unconsciousness in this warmth.

I felt him stir. He tensed, realizing someone was with him. His hands relaxed again, warm on my back. I craned my neck, looking up at him. He shifted away a bit to see me better.

"How did you kill him?" I asked. "My father?"

Everything about him stilled. He was fully awake now. "I stabbed him," he answered. "And I left his body somewhere it'll never be found." He swallowed. "On the records, he's just missing. Like you." He felt me tense up in horror. "I'm not—I'm not going to kill you."

I covered my eyes. "If I ever get out, they're going to think I did it." When I looked at him again, he was still watching me. "My life is gone."

"I'm so sorry, Phoebe," he said, his voice taking a strange turn.

I stared at him. "Why did you have to do it?"

He was silent for so long, I thought he might not answer. He cast his eyes over the room; I wondered if he realized he still had his arms around me, and that I was still bound.

"Because I take care of people who kill others. I get rid of them."

"But why? You work for the police. Why not do it through them?"

"The police miss things, or obscure them. Even the law itself abandons justice sometimes."

"And you decide it for us?"

"Were you going to?" he asked me. "Two days ago, would you have killed me if you were certain?"

"My.. Mel didn't kill your family. Neither did Steve."

"No, they didn't. But that does not make their end less just."

"I don't think what you do is about justice," I said, staring at him. He didn't answer.

With difficulty, I sat up. "I'd like to take a shower."

"All right." He got off the bed and opened his closet, getting a t-shirt and pants. There was no way they were going to fit me, but it was better than being naked. I stood on my own for the first time in days, unsteadily, still cuffed around the ankles.

"Here," Morgan said, getting the keys and quickly uncuffing my legs.

"Would you mind getting my hands, too?" I asked, feeling strange. He hesitated; he had no reason to trust me. "I… I'm not going to be able to get my shirt off," I explained.

He helped me off with the handcuffs as well, sitting on the sink and waiting for me as I showered. Relieved to finally be clean, I toweled off and dressed still behind the shower curtain, unwilling to be naked in front of him. In this context, privacy felt like a revolution.

"Where are your children?" I asked suddenly as I came out of the shower.

"At their grandparents'." Morgan gave me a strange look. "Why?"

"Because when I was researching you, I knew you had three."

"Two were my wife's children. The youngest was ours." Morgan swallowed.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your wife," I said quietly, squeezing out the water from my hair with his towel.

"Thanks." He hesitated, watching my face. "I've got to go to work."

"All right." That meant he needed to tie me up again. Crap.

"I don't particularly want to chain you up again."

"Me neither," I replied dryly. "Can you think of a better arrangement?" I knew as well as he did that he had no reason to trust that I wouldn't try to escape. "Nevermind. Just… today, could I have a book? I need something to put my mind to."

"Sure." He led me to his living room. I chose a poetry anthology and went downstairs. He bound my feet and hands, got me breakfast, and left without chaining me onto the table. Much better.

I listened for the garage door and departing car. As soon as I was positive he was gone, I hauled myself to my feet and half-waddled, half-bunny-hopped my way to the door. It was bolted, as I knew, but it would feel foolish not to try. I shoved my weight against it to try it, lifting the doorknob. I heard a click, and the steel door gave way, opening out.

What the hell? Was this a trick? I was instantly wary. How could he have left it like this?

"Hello?" I called out suspiciously. No answer.

I searched around the basement for a pair of garden shears, but there was nothing. I noted a shovel, but I wasn't looking for that much manual labor.

I sat on the stairs and pushed myself up one by one, all sixteen of them. Still jumpy, I searched about the house and got into the garage. There! Hanging on the wall, a pair of short-bladed, well-weighted shears. It took all of my weight to force it, but I cut the chain linking the cuffs on my hands and ankles.

Ohh, bliss. Sweet, sweet flexibility.

Stupidly, I hadn't even considered what I should do next. I assumed that he took my cuff keys with him, but perhaps there was another pair..? I strode quickly to his bedroom, still reveling in my freedom.

No such luck. I had no idea where to look. I rifled through the drawers, feeling under the cabinets to make sure there was nothing underneath. He was a neat freak; everything was neatly folded and organized. There were gloves—I put them on, knowing he was a cop and hoping to limit my prints. But for a few baby toys crammed under his dresser, there was nothing unusual there.

I lifted up his mattress, feeling all over for irregularities. Nothing. Nothing on the bedframe or box springs. His bedside table had an airhorn in it. Handy.

His closet was also well-organized, but I found a chest on the top shelf. I hauled it down to investigate: it held knives. My stomach turned. These had seen my family.

I quickly searched it for keys before closing it off and pushing it back on the shelf. I didn't even want to look at it.

Casting my eyes around the room for other options, I took the picture off of the wall and checked the back. Nothing behind it.

I carefully got the cover off of his air conditioner unit and peered inside. There was something in there.

Squinting, I reached in.

Yes, there were the keys. I immediately tried them on my cuffs, snapping them off with relish.

There was something else back there, I realized as I slipped the keys back in. I reached and brought out a case. When I opened it, all I saw were microscope slides—with red in the middle.

Trophies? My stomach turned, but I couldn't stop staring at them. What a disturbing collection. I put them back.

What now? Should I go to the police?

What on earth could I tell them?

Hello, officers, is Dexter Morgan here? Oh, good, because he killed my family. No, he had no motive whatsoever.

I had no idea how I would explain how I knew he killed them without alluding to my own attempt to kill him. Then again, I could cast the whole thing as if he was trying to take out the whole family, and haul in his computer with all of the evidence on it.

I sat on the bed and thought, my head in my hands.

This whole time, I hadn't been able to face the question of whether or not my family was guilty. Could Morgan have made that stuff up to convince me?

But why would he want to? If they were lies, why not just kill me?

The ones of my brother weren't lies. Nobody else had his specific, tiny birthmarks, his moles, his structure. Nobody photoshopping a picture would know him well enough to include that.

It couldn't have been Mal, I had told Morgan while he was bound. He didn't have it in him.

But you still know it, he had said, softly.

And as for my father… my god, it wasn't pleasant, but it was easy to imagine. I had always known he was not an honest man.

How far could I get if I just tried to leave? Would Morgan let me go? Would I be able to elude him even if he was determined to stop me?

Because I still didn't know what to do with him yet. If I was honest with myself, what he had done was not at all far removed from what I had almost gone through with—and he was more certain of their guilt than I had been of his.

Did he kill innocents as well?

I glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table—12:14 p.m. I still had no idea when he usually came back; it felt sporadic, but even if he always returned at 5:30 on the button I could not have known it.

Pacing the room, I tried to come up with a plan.

Perhaps the best way to get him off my tail would be to earn his trust.

I picked up the remnants of the cuffs. I was well and truly done with these now, no putting them back together. But if I demonstrated that I could have left, but didn't, that I had every ability to go but had stayed put, perhaps he could trust me. My agency didn't do much to help me on that, but then, he already knew I wasn't one to sit still when I had any power to do otherwise.

Still jumpy as hell, I retreated down the stairs again, keeping my destroyed cuffs. I needed a weapon of some sort in case he tried to punish me; my first choice was the shovel I had found earlier.

I pulled the folding chair up the the metal table and tried to read, but he was back before long. He came down the stairs, and my heart leapt to my throat—his eyes widened, taking in what I had done. I got to my feet, tense.

"Well," he said, staring at my unbound limbs.

"Hope you don't mind," I replied.

He stepped inside and leaned against the wall opposite me. "Why didn't you go?"

The truth came out. No lie would be as convincing. "I wanted you to trust me more. I figured that if you saw my first impulse wasn't to go to the police, you might be more able to let me free."

"I see." He was looking at my wrists. "How did you manage it?" Seeing me hesitate, he clarified, "I'm not going to reinforce the restraints, if that's what you're thinking."

"I got through the door—did you know it was not well-braced?—and used the garden shears in the garage cut them."

"But what about the cuffs themselves? The shears wouldn't've…"

"I found your keys," I said, wondering how many pairs he had around the house. Judging by his eyes, there was only the one I had found.

"Where?" he asked quietly.

I faltered, feeling truly afraid for the first time today. "In the A.C. Unit in your room."

Whatever he was thinking, it had been confirmed. He swallowed. "What made you look there?"

"They weren't anywhere else," I answered dully. I still suspected that he had set me up. "Did you leave the door like that on purpose?"

"Yes. I was outside."

I knew it! "Did you not hear me screwing around in here? Why didn't you come back in?"

"I just watched the doors to see if you would escape. You didn't."

"Good grief, Morgan." I laughed.

He folded his arms, appraising me. "Let's go get dinner. I expect you're sick of being cooped up in here."

I hesitated. "If people are looking for me, I shouldn't show my face at the moment."

"We'll go somewhere that won't be a problem." He extended his hand, offering me a bag I hadn't noticed before. "I got you clothes. I hope they fit ok."

He left me to change. In the bag were a pair of plain jeans, cotton underwear, and a long-sleeved polo shirt to hide my wrists. Apparently, he knew enough about female anatomy to know that any attempt to guess a woman's bra size was just futile; I wore the one I had had on for days. The rest fit fine, though the pants were a little loose.

"Mind if I borrow a belt?" I asked, coming out of my old prison.

"Sure." I followed him up the stairs and accepted a canvas belt that could close at any size. My pants stayed on.

It occurred to me that he might be taking me somewhere to dispose of me. But if he was going to kill me, he would be better off doing it in his home.

He took me out of town to a restaurant with a balcony in the back, going to the counter to order for us both while I took a corner seat outside, facing the ocean. I closed my eyes, letting the salty air bathe my face. Only a day ago (I thought; I was starting to lose track) I thought I might rot in a basement, and never see another person. And now here I was.

Morgan came back with drinks, setting them on the table sitting across from me.

"Think anybody will recognize you?" I asked, squinting at him.

"No."

I took his cue and silenced, watching the sea instead until our food came. We ate, still conversationless.

"I think," I began quietly. He looked at me immediately, focused. "We both have motive to kill each other. You executed my family, and I could ruin you." He had the upper hand, and I knew it. But I also knew that if he was going to get rid of me, he ought to have done it by now. Even more important, I didn't sense that he bore me malevolence. I was tired of being afraid. "And so far, both of us are still alive."

"Do you want to turn me in?" he asked, eyes searching mine.

"Have you ever killed anyone innocent?" I asked, putting his question aside.

"Yes," Morgan answered. He was measuring up my response, watching me think. "I have. An accident. But even if I hadn't, you can't have forgiven me."

He was right. "I mourned my brother. My father… It doesn't make sense, but I can't feel anything about it. I cried, but I didn't feel. I don't know if it's shock, or just an inability I have to be remorseful about it." I shrugged, but I was telling the truth. "I would ask if that makes me a psychopath, but I reckon I would be asking the wrong person."

"You would be." His mouth twisted.

"So why do you do it? Why go after all of these people?"

He folded his arms on the table, silent, considering. "I need to."

"Why? Do you have some rabid passion for justice, or do you enjoy it?"

I must have hit a nerve. He stopped breathing.

"It makes me alive," he said.

I stared at him. "What keeps you to… to murderers, then?"

"A code." He swallowed, his eyes hollow. "There's a code I follow. People who kill innocents. People who know better. Sick fucks who don't care about the lives they're destroying." He paused, then summarized what I was thinking. "People like me, except without my code."

"Oh." I ran a hand through my hair, blank. These were strange things to hear. But the revelations about my family had drained me of any ability to be afraid of him right now. They had killed innocents, and he had not—mostly.

"Are you ready to go?" He asked. I nodded, getting up and making my way to his car, keeping my face lowered, not meeting anybody's eyes.

"I need to ask you something," he said, buckling his safety belt.

"What is it?"

"I need to know if there's anything in your house that might link you to me."

I thought it through, and shook my head. "No. I didn't write anything down."

"No addresses, nothing?"

"No. I remember numbers. I can see them when I'm looking for them."

"How about your web history? Anything that might show up?"

"No. I cleared the cache every day; did it before I came after you." I smiled a little. "My dad was a cop, remember? I learned how to hide stuff. Besides, that machine was locked down like a freight train already. I would be surprised if they even got it to boot."

Morgan nodded, getting onto the highway and accelerating to the speed limit. "Good."

"You believe me?" I asked, surprised.

He actually laughed. "Phoebe, we've been sounding each other out so hard, I think you would tell me to my face if you were considering killing me."

…He was right. It was a sick twist of irony that—

"What a sick twist of irony that the person I feel free to tell the truth to is a serial killer," I said aloud. "You're the only one who takes it."

His mouth twitched appreciatively. "I could say the same," he said, "but for the serial killer bit."

"…yeah."

"Do you want to go back?" He asked, out of the blue. "Back to your home? Your life?"

I shrugged. "It's irrelevant. My da- my old family is gone. Nothing else to go back to. Even if they were alive, there would be nothing left to go back to." I wondered to myself whether, if I had found out about them, I would have attacked them myself.

"No other family?"

"Not really. I'm a foster kid. So was Mal."

"I knew he was. I didn't know you were as well." He paused. "So was I."

"Really? Were they ok to you?"

He nodded. "They were. Especially Harry. He.." Morgan glanced at me. "It's his code I follow."

"He knew about you?" I stared at him.

"Yes, he knew. He spotted it before I did. Helped me hone it, channel it." He took a moment, choosing his next words carefully. "But I have to wonder what I would be if he had not opened those doors for me."

I was silent for a while, watching the road slip under the car. "Do you think you're a bad person?" I asked finally.

He gave a small shrug. "I don't think I can be correctly human and enjoy what I do."

I stared at ahead, seeing absolutely nothing. "I don't give a damn how it makes you feel. If you've learned to control, to conduct your own will, then you're a good deal better off than most humans I know." I turned to look out of my window. "Principles are more indicative. Feelings never seem to be what they're supposed to be, anyway."

I felt his eyes on me. They rested on my face, curiously seeking my thoughts. But I had nothing more to say, and neither did he.