It was late. Not late by my usual standards when I was in high school, but late by pretty much any other measure— somewhere around two or three in the morning. It was another hot and sticky summer night, and there were dead bugs splattered all over the car's windshield. The engine was humming between us in the silence. One of us had killed the radio a couple minutes ago.

Slowly, Logan McKinley reached forward and pulled one of the wheel sticks down. A bunch of cleaning fluid shot up and hit the glass, and he ran the wipers a couple times until most of the bug guts were gone or, at least, had been slapped to the edges of the windshield.

"That's better," he muttered.

"Can't believe you drove with it like that," I muttered back. "Could barely fucking see through them."

"Yeah, me either."

We finally looked at each other. There weren't any street lights in the neighborhood, so his face was lit mostly by the porch lights on nearby houses. I sucked on my cigarette, awkwardly blew out the smoke. I wasn't very good at it yet. It was a recent habit.

"Want me to pick you up again tomorrow?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said, consciously holding the cigarette against the side of my lips, trying to look indifferent.

"There won't be much time after that. I could come by in the morning on Tuesday before we go, but…"

I just looked at him.

I was angry at him. I'd been bitchy since he first came to get me, kept trying to get a rise out of him, but he never took the bait. I felt sick to my stomach most of the night, but it got a lot worse as we sat there, not talking. All the cigarettes I'd burned through weren't helping either. I was a little light-headed.

"I don't know," I said again.

He sighed. He wasn't smoking. He never had any interest in my cigarettes. Like me, he'd lost a family member to lung cancer, but, unlike me, he'd learned something from their death.

"I've gotta go," I said, then stuck the cancer stick between my teeth as I reached for the handle, popped open the car door. There I hesitated. "Thanks, for today," I said. "For this." I pulled at the necklace— a gold heart on a thin chain. He'd given it to me earlier in a small, unwrapped box. "And for the cake and shit."

He smiled. "You're welcome."

For a beat I sat there with my arm outstretched against the door, half out of the car. I was trying to come up with something else to say, but nothing was coming. I felt stupid and vaguely embarrassed. And angry. I wanted to get back in and kiss him, but I also wanted to just get away from him.

"So I'll come by tomorrow," he said. It was somewhere between a question and a statement.

"Okay," I said, glad he was making the decision for me.

"8 o'clock?"

"Sure."

"Your brother won't care, right?"

I scoffed. "I doubt he'll fucking notice." I took a final puff on the cigarette, then flicked it out of the car, slid the rest of the way out of the seat and onto the sidewalk.

"See you tomorrow then."

"Yeah." I grabbed the side of the door.

"And, Deb," I looked at him, "happy birthday again."

"Thanks," I said, somewhat sourly, the urge to kiss him having abruptly evaporated. I threw the door closed.

The car idled for a second beside me, then slowly pulled away from the curb. We waved at each other. I stuck my fingers in my belt loops as I watched him hook a u-ey, then drive down to the end of the block, turn, and disappear behind a house. I stood there a moment longer before reaching into my pocket for another cigarette and my lighter, and I lit up again as I started walking toward my house. There were no other signs of life on the street. That shitty feeling was pressing in again.

Logan and I had been dating since November. In May he told me that his family was moving up to Virginia Beach for work. Up until the last few weeks, both of us had been pretending that he wasn't leaving, or that something was gonna change, but now the date was two days away and we'd shifted to pretending that we were gonna call all the time, that nothing was gonna change except that we wouldn't be able to touch each other anymore.

And that ended up being mostly true. For about a month and a half, anyway. Despite his best efforts.

I focused on our mailbox as I walked up to our house, then the driveway. It was empty. I wondered if Dexter had parked in the garage, or if that meant he wasn't actually home, but I decided not to take any chances. I fished my key out of my pocket as I walked through the grass around the side of the house. There weren't any lights on. When I reached the back door, I had to key the deadbolt by feel, and when I got the door open I reached for the light switch and flipped it before gently pushing the door closed behind me.

Even though I told myself I didn't care, I walked to the garage and checked inside for my brother's car. It wasn't there. As I stood looking at the piles of my parents' shit all along the sides of the garage, around the hole where Dexter's car was supposed to be, I felt even more pissed off. This time, I slammed the door closed, then headed back to the kitchen. I was still sucking on the cigarette as I opened the fridge. Inside was the cake my brother had bought for me that morning, with two slices taken out of it. Something about the sight of it made me want to smash it against the wall. Or cry.

Instead of doing either, I grabbed the carton of orange juice off the lower shelf and took it with me to the living room, where I turned on the TV and started channel skimming. I don't remember what I ended up stopping on. At that hour, probably an infomercial. Whatever it was, I flopped onto the couch after selecting it. Eventually killed the cigarette and smushed it out in an ash tray I'd bought for myself. It was one of the only items in the house that wasn't my parents'— Dad threw out all my mother's ash trays after she died. He stopped smoking when she got sick.

I was still thinking about Logan, about him leaving. For the thousandth time, I thought about telling Dexter I was going too. I was sure he wouldn't care, and I was half sure he'd barely notice. There wasn't anything keeping me in Miami. There wasn't really any reason to stay. I thought about asking Logan tomorrow if he could ask his parents about me staying with them until I could find a place. The realities of what I was considering— being an unemancipated minor, without a car, moving several states north to go to high school with my boyfriend —were lost on me. Or, more precisely, they didn't matter to me.

But I was just spinning my wheels, and somewhere, deep, deep down, I may even have known that. Because for as much as I kind of hated my brother, he was all I had, and I couldn't leave, even if the McKinleys had offered me free R&B indefinitely.

As I laid there not watching the TV, I drank a lot of orange juice, but I didn't light another cigarette. I didn't have anymore. I stuck my lighter on the table next to the ash tray after realizing this, then sank back, annoyed.

Eventually, after a long time, the sound of an approaching car attracted my attention. I glanced out the window as headlights hit the glass, but didn't move. Part of me wanted to turn off the TV and retract back into my room before Dex got into the house, but the rest of me wanted him to find me there. Mostly because I wanted to ask what the fuck he was doing out so late on a Sunday night. So I stayed put.

Dex didn't park in the garage. When he got out of his car, he did a soft close on the door. Then, the same way I did, he headed around the side of the house instead of going through the front door.

I looked pointedly at the TV as I waited for him, still taking in absolutely nothing that was going on on the screen. I didn't look as the lock turned, or as the kitchen door opened. He did another soft close. Turned the lock slowly, quietly. The floor barely creaked as he stepped away from it.

"Finally fucking home?" I asked loudly. Acidly.

Another creak. I sat up to see my brother frozen in the kitchen. He was holding his gym bag awkwardly against his belly, and he looked sweaty and disheveled.

"Hey, Deb," he said. That was all he said.

I glared at him. That sick feeling was pooling in my stomach, pushing up my chest, though I couldn't quite identify its source. Or didn't want to.

After a couple beats of silence, I found my tongue again. "Why do you look like you got shit through a turbine?"

"That's none of your business." He exhaled and started walking toward the living room, still clutching his bag to his chest.

"You out fucking someone?" I asked. I was trying to get a rise out of him.

"None of your business," he repeated, but he wasn't meeting my eyes.

I rolled off the top of the couch, leaving the orange juice capped on the cushions. Instead of stopping to talk to me, Dexter sidestepped me and kept going, probably heading for his room. I flipped on the light as I followed him, got in front of him.

"What?" he asked, stopping. He almost sounded annoyed.

"Why are you being so fucking weird?" I asked.

"I'm not being weird. It's late. I just want to take a shower and go to bed."

I started to accuse him of something, but noticed a streak of red on his cheek before I could form the words. It wasn't lipstick, or anything that made sense. "The fuck?" I said. "What's on your face?" I reached out to touch it.

"Deb—" He broke off as he stepped back, his jaw clenching. I saw finally, through his mask of a face, that he was angry.

Now I was feeling more weirded out than pissed. It was strange to see him be anything but completely placid, calm like still fucking pond water. That was one of the things that irritated me most about him.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Nothing happened. I just want to take a shower. Would you move, please?"

I crossed my arms. "No."

Another jaw pinch. "Move, Debra."

"No."

He grunted slightly, then used his shoulder to shove through me, started heading down the hall.

"Jesus!" I yelped. "What the fuck is your problem?"

He didn't reply.

Incensed, I chased after him, grabbed his bag and yanked it away from his body. He was way stronger than me, and I didn't manage to take it from him, but it moved, and for a split second I saw a large, dark stain on his stomach, through a tear in his shirt. Then he ripped the duffel back out of my grip, covered it up.

"The fuck?" I breathed.

He turned, and his expression scared me, instantly killed the air in my chest. Unconsciously, I stepped away from him.

His face had fallen open, hollowed out, like something had slid, abruptly, out of place. And there was nothing there. He didn't seem to recognize me.

Just for a second. Then it was gone, smoothed over. So quickly I couldn't be sure I'd really seen it at all.

"It's nothing," he mumbled.

"The fuck it is." Fear was rapidly pushing me toward rage. Beyond just the fact that his stomach was coated with blood, he'd scared me. "What happened to you? Let me fucking see." I yanked on the bag again. I could feel my heart beat in my ears.

"I got mugged," he said, finally relenting. Instead of letting me have the bag, he dropped it on the floor.

I let it drop as I reached for his shirt, tentatively plucked at the fabric. "Jesus," I whispered. There was a lot of blood, already crusting up around a long, thin gash across his diaphragm. His shirt was stuck to it, and he hissed slightly as I pulled it away from his skin. "Did you call the police?"

"No. He… got away. And I wasn't near any phones."

I looked at him in bewilderment. "You didn't even make a report?"

"There was no point. I didn't see his face."

"Dex, he fucking stabbed you, jesus. I'm gonna fucking call…" I started to turn away, but he grabbed me by the arm, kept me there. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I snarled, slapping his hand off me.

He retracted. "Just leave it alone, Deb. It would be a waste of their time."

"Maybe you should let the fucking police decide what is or isn't a waste of their time." But I didn't try to move for the phone again. I knew he'd stop me. I could sense it in his posture.

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Please, just leave it alone."

I wanted to cry, or to knock his fucking teeth out with that ugly ass bronze elk sculpture on the hall table. "Why the hell didn't you go to the hospital?" I asked.

"It's not as bad as it looks."

An angry, strangled sound came out of my mouth. I didn't know what the fuck to even say to that, it was so stupid.

"Deb, really, I'm okay."

I still couldn't speak.

"He didn't even take anything," Dexter added after a second passed.

As if he thought that would reassure me. "Is that why he fucking stabbed you?" I asked. "You try to keep your fucking shit instead of just giving it to him?"

"I don't know," he said.

I stared at him. He was so full of shit I could've peeled my own face off. "You've been taking this fucking martial art, jiu-jitsu shit too seriously." I pointed at him. My hand was shaking. "He could've fucking killed you. You could've died tonight. You would've fucking left me…" I couldn't finish the sentence. "Jesus," I murmured. I pulled my hand back, hid my face behind it. I wanted to cry. My jaw was suddenly aching.

"Deb…"

He reached out for me, but I flinched away, dropped my hand. "Don't fucking touch me."

If that hurt him, it didn't reach his face. And that hurt me.

I remembered how ten minutes ago I'd been considering telling him I wanted to move to Virginia Beach without him, since when I asked back in May he told me he wouldn't go, that there wasn't a chance. That I'd rather be there than here, with him. I realized how fucking stupid that was. "Don't fucking do that again," I told him. "It's just you and me here, Dex. Don't you realize that? Don't you care?"

"You're making way too big a deal out of this. Really, I'm okay."

I glared at him. "Are you fucking retarded?"

He didn't reply.

And I didn't know what else to say. I wanted to let him hug me, or to hug him, just to quell this horrible, griefy feeling that was constricting my heart, wrapping around my throat, but I felt equally repelled by him. I loved him, but sometimes it was like he didn't care about me, like I didn't exist to him. Like he didn't need me. I knew what happened to him wasn't his fault, but he'd come home with every intention of hiding it from me. I could've lost him, had Matthews show up on my doorstep to tell me he was gone as I was laying there on the couch drinking orange juice and not watching the TV, and it was like he didn't care. Like he didn't realize. He didn't even seem shaken. His injury scared me more than it seemed to scare him.

I exhaled, and my breath came out truncated. "Just fucking go," I said. I started walking past him.

"Deb…"

"You wanted to go? Fucking go then." I didn't look at him again. I headed for my room, snapped the door closed behind me once I reached it. And then I stood in the dark without moving, looking at nothing in particular as the room gradually came into focus, as my eyes adjusted. I felt like something was crushing me internally. I hoped he would come after me, that he would show some sign that he understood what I was feeling, but when I heard his footsteps they weren't coming in my direction. There was no knock on my door. Instead I heard a different door shut, and then the shower coming on.

After a beat I stepped forward, then sank slowly down to the carpet, turned to sit back against my bed frame. Took my glasses off and set them somewhere beside me, wrapped my arms around my knees.

I remembered us having cake that afternoon. The week before Dexter had asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I told him. He gave me the new CD player and the replacement pair of headphones that I wanted, along with the cake. No card, coz Dex didn't do cards, and, frankly, I didn't either. Didn't care about it. We ate in the kitchen off paper plates. We didn't bother with candles.

It was my first birthday without Dad.

My chest pulled painfully.

I fucking missed him. Terribly. Him and Mom.

I missed them so much.

That was the thought that finally broke my composure. I buried my face in my arms, and I started to cry.

†

The TV's still on. Words are filtering in and out, and most of them are being used to describe Dremels and Dremel accessories. Irritated by the sound, I roll over and pull the remote out from under my shoulder, hit the power button. The light and the voices are gone instantly, and in its place the steady sound of the tide rolls in.

I listen to it, look out the sliding doors. I left them open. Them and the bug screen. Sure every gnat and fucking mosquito on the beach got in.

Dammit.

I sigh as I sit up, rub my face. I don't know whether or not I fell into anything beyond a doze, but that memory of my birthday is still heavy on my mind. I've been thinking about it since yesterday. I remembered it because as I was looking for earrings yesterday morning I saw that stupid necklace Logan gave me, tucked into one of the compartments of my jewelry box. For some reason, I still have it. Besides my yearbook, it's one of the only things I still have from high school.

And since I remembered it, I've been thinking about that injury, over and over. It occurred to me that Dexter wasn't mugged that night. That that was why he didn't want to involve the police, or to go to the hospital. That on my 17th birthday, as Logan and I were parking by the beach, my brother went out to try to kill someone, and that he probably succeeded. Or, if he didn't, it was probably only because the guy stabbed him first.

I swallow and drop my hands, get up. Slowly walk over and close the sliding doors, pull down the lock.

Right now Dexter's asleep in my bed, or he fucking better be. It's been almost a week since I tore apart his place, dug those fucking slides out of his air vent, found the secret drawer in his trunk: plastic wrap and duct tape and garbage bags and butcher's tools. The prosthetic hand that Brian Moser took from Monique Santos before sawing her apart, wrapping up the pieces, and distributing them under a Christmas tree. He had that fucking hand in his apartment. At some point since the last time I saw it in that box, he took it out of evidence and brought it home as… what? A souvenir?

It's been almost a week since I found out he was the Bay Harbor Butcher. That he set up Doakes. That he must've murdered Doakes. That he murdered all those people they pulled up out of the water. That since Doakes died and Miami Metro took possession of his original box, he's killed enough to almost fill another.

It's fucking nauseating.

And all he fucking does is complain that I won't leave him alone. As if I'm overreacting.

As if I'm not covering up what he's done. As if I haven't become complicit in all of it. As if I didn't help him burn down that church, sell the lies to my department and the news.

The beer I was drinking earlier is still sitting on my ottoman. I pick it up and take a sip, find it warm and flat. Maybe I did fall asleep. Glance at the time— 4:28. Yep.

I set it back down where it was, then pull my blanket off the couch and wrap myself up in it. I think about an aimless visit to the fridge, but instead I walk toward my bedroom. I find the door cracked when I reach it, and I tap it open, look to see my brother in my bed. He's asleep. Thank god.

I lean against the door frame as I watch him sleep. He seems so peaceful. Totally harmless. I think about that night again, about what it was like back then, just the two of us in our parents' house. Dexter didn't know how to take care of me. Didn't know how to cook, didn't know how to read me, barely knew how to talk to me. Night after night of ready meals. Sometimes we didn't even see each other. Many nights, he didn't come home. I used to wonder where he went, sniped at him with comments about some secret or possibly imaginary girlfriend. It took almost two decades for me to finally get the truth. Because even back then, he was killing people, and I didn't have the slightest idea.

And Dad trained him. Fucking… groomed him. Turned him into what he is. Gave him some "Code" to lie by, and to kill by. And it started when we were both kids, back even before Mom died.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Does he expect me to do?

I push open the door and walk to the bed, sit on the edge of the mattress. When he doesn't do anything, I reach over and touch his shoulder. "Dex," I say.

Nothing.

He still sleeps like a fucking dead log.

"Dex," I repeat. After waiting another second, on an impulse I give him a sharp pinch.

"Ow!" he mutters, swatting at my hand. I don't move as he turns over and looks up at me, clearly still half asleep. "Deb?" he mumbles.

Do you love me? I want to ask. Do you love anything? Do you feel anything real?

Or are you empty? Like Brian Moser was?

Would I see him in you if you stopped pretending?

Your brother?

"Deb?" he says again, sitting up slightly.

I can't say the words. Can't equate him to Moser aloud. The problem isn't that I don't know how he'll answer. It's that I don't think I'll believe him.

But as I look at him in the dark, I realize I want to ask him something else. Something I used to wonder, when he was gone so often, sometimes for days at a time. When we barely had anything to do with each other. "Why did you keep me?" I ask.

His brows dip. "What?"

"After Dad died and Matthews and CPS showed up on our doorstep, why did you insist I stay with you? Why didn't you transfer my guardianship over to our aunt, ship me away?"

He blinks, pushes himself up against the headboard. "What kind of question is that?" he says. "You're my sister."

I'm studying him, trying to excavate some meaning from his face, but what I would've read as genuine before no longer means anything to me. "You were killing people. That's where you went all those nights. You were out stalking and killing people. Why keep me around? Why take the risk? They gave you an out. Why didn't you take it?"

He looks offended by the question, or I think he does, anyway. He opens his mouth, then closes it, shakes his head. "I…" He stops. "You're my family," he says after a beat. "I wasn't going to abandon you. And, besides, if I'm honest, I wasn't all that concerned that you'd find out what I was doing."

Now I feel slightly offended. "Why not?"

He shrugs. "I was careful around you. That was the first rule."

"Don't feed me this 'Code' bullshit—"

"It's not bullshit," he cuts me off. "And clearly I was right and it worked. You were too close to me to see what I was doing. Even when you and the rest of the department were investigating me you didn't catch me. You only know now because you walked in on me. I've gotten away with it all these years…"

He trails off as he meets my glare. He's majorly pissing me off. "But what if I had?" I ask. "What if I hadn't chosen to ignore all those weird fucking things you did all the fucking time?"

"I…" He shrugs again, somewhat helplessly now. "But you didn't. Why are we having this conversation?"

I don't want to ask him. The words are stuck in my throat.

I can remember something now. Something I used to think I'd imagined, molded through a haze of animal tranquilizers. It came back to me last week, as I looked at those pictures from the garage Moser dragged me into.

("We can take this journey together.")

("I can't. Not Deb.")

For once Dexter seems to understand where I'm going, without me having to hold up the sign posts. "I would never have hurt you. Deb…" He reaches out and takes my hand. I almost pull away. Don't. "You're my family."

"Was that like section 8 of the 'Code'?" I demand. Now I do take my hand back.

"What?" I can't tell if the question hurt him or not. "No. I care about you. I've always cared about you. I love you. I would never let anything happen to you."

("I'm very fond of her.")

I feel nauseous. I can see that prosthetic hand, in his apartment. All those body parts. On the ice. In the inflatable morgue the FBI set up in our parking lot. Butcher paper and blood slides. Half of Doakes' body floating in bog water. Tucci lying on that gurney in the hospital basement with his limbs sawed off. Fred Harvey's body stuffed into the trunk of his own car, and me right along with him. In the dark.

How long did you know? When did you know that Brian Moser was your brother?

Did you know what was going to happen to me when I got onto that boat?

Did you?

He brought me to your family house. Drugged me, stripped me, gift wrapped me in plastic for you. Arranged a tray of saws and knives and fucking kitchen tongs for you to break me apart with.

Did you really come there to save me that night?

Did you?

Or was it just that you changed your mind?

(no I can't believe that I don't believe that)

(why the fuck did you just fucking stand there)

"Deb," he prompts, when I don't speak.

I can't ask. Can't say the words. I can't believe he did that, even after all this, after everything I've seen. Because he did take care of me. And I have to believe it was real. That some part of him is real. I can't bear the alternative.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit finally, quietly.

Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes my hand again, starts to rub it. This time I let him have it.

"Are you going to turn me in?"

"I don't know." I shrug, weakly. "I fucking should." I look up, catch his gaze. "What would you do if I did?"

"Nothing."

Again I study him, search his eyes. He's stopped rubbing my hand. "You'd just fucking sit here? You'd just… let me take you into custody? Drop you on the short list to death row?" I ask.

"Yes." He nods. "If that's what you decide to do, you should be the one to take me in."

And what's fucked is I believe him. Or I believe that he believes that.

Suddenly, I'm exhausted.

I reclaim my hand, slide off the bed. The thought of going back to my couch to sleep there doesn't appeal to me. The thought of having to go to work in a couple hours, of having to run a fucking briefing and pretend like my brother isn't a fucking serial killer and everything is fine appeals to me even less. I think I'd rather curl up in a trash compactor for the rest of the night.

"Can I do anything?"

I stop as I reach the doorway, turn back to my brother. Arch my brows. "Are you fucking serious?" I ask.

He opens his mouth, but he doesn't respond. Maybe he realized what a dumb ass fucking thing that was to say. For once.

Exhaling, I walk back out of my bedroom, leave the door open. Leave him there. When I reach my couch I automatically grab for the remote and flip the TV back on before sitting down. Rewrap the blanket. Nothing on the screen is registering, but I don't mute it. I'm hoping it'll drown away my thoughts.

It sort of works.

For a couple seconds.

I sink down onto the cushions, pull my other blanket off the floor and throw it over me, on top of the first one. Tuck in my feet. Adjust the pillow under my head. I feel cold. The actors in the infomercial are talking about a sandwich press. I remember I didn't eat dinner.

And I remember those nights, the two years we spent in that house. Dex and I and all my parents' shit. Everything seemed so fucked then. And it was— far, far more than I ever realized. But it didn't always feel that way. Sometimes we did take care of each other. Sometimes he was everything I needed him to be. Sometimes we just sat together on the couch eating cheese puffs and everything was alright.

And I remember when I was really young, when I had nightmares and I'd sleep on his floor. I used to think he was so brave. He was never scared of anything. Not of the monsters in the closet, or of the dark, of the swamps, of riptides, of the deep ends of the wading pools. Now I wonder if it's because he didn't know what it meant to be afraid. Or if it was just that whatever it was that was inside him was worse than anything I could've conjured.

And I remember lying there on that table, wrapped down in plastic wrap, the tape tight on my lips, the band taut against my forehead. In bits and pieces, I think I remember their voices, but I don't know how much was real. If any of it was. I just know how scared I was.

And I remember Dexter cutting me off that table. Those two months I lived with him. How many times he hugged me as I broke down into his shoulder. He felt so much like the only stable thing in the universe. He always has. That one, constantly decent thing.

And now…

My gaze slips from the TV out the doors, at the lanterns outside, the shadows of palm trees, my patio furniture. Slowly, I release my breath.

I don't know what that memory means. If they were really there together, standing over me. Talking. I don't want to know. I don't ever want to know. But it occurs to me that I'm not afraid of him. That despite those sound bytes, despite him having killed who fucking knows how many people, I'm not afraid that he's here. Because even though I feel like I don't know a fucking thing about him anymore, and like he may in fact be sculpted entirely out of shit, I do believe he wouldn't hurt me, even if I did finally locate my conscience, walked back in there with a pair of cuffs and frog marched him down to the station.

Because I don't think he is a monster. I think he's wrong. Dad was wrong. I've seen monsters.

Because I don't believe he's a sheet of ice.

And that's something.

That's enough.

Just enough.

And that's what I'm gonna have to stake everything on, despite whatever it's gonna cost me.

I close my eyes.

And it's gonna fucking cost me.