"Dexter, are you okay?" Dexter is washing up. He isn't going anywhere. Reliable Dexter won't abandon Harrison's bottles, and can't pretend they're too captivating to talk to his sister. So here I am, trying to start a serious conversation that neither of us want to have.

"I'm fine, Deb."

"Because you shouldn't be. Rita's been dead four days, and you act like you're ready to pick up a box of donuts for work. You're freaking me out."

He looks over his shoulder. "Is there a mourning period for donuts?" It's a joke, but it isn't. He really doesn't know.

"Yes!" Oops, forgot to be quiet. "For donuts, for competence, for - for the fucking dishes, Dexter!"

"Sorry, Deb." He doesn't turn around again. I know he hates talking feelings, but fucking Jesus. I'm not done rolling my eyes at his back before he adds. "I guess I'm too thrown by Rita's death to fake normal human grieving. That's going to be awkward."

I must have breathed. Must have - something. Because he turns, and stares at me. As frozen as I feel. "I said that out loud."

"No fucking shit." And I'm so fucking sorry, Dex, but I'm glad for the counter between us. I know I know you're not Rudy and never could be and - just that sudden ice.

And he's just - standing there, watching me freak, trying to reason out how to fix it. My clueless brother, completely out of his depth and not even trying. I know I shouldn't, but: "What does that mean, fake? Rita's dead and your son's in there sleeping, and you're going to tell me you don't fucking feel anything?"

"It sounded less sociopathic in my head." I want it to be Dexter's real voice again, apologetic quirky and deadpan, so you have to decide if he's being funny or just weird. But it rings hollow, like he doesn't even care what he sounds like. But I do.

"Shit. Jesus fuck no. I didn't mean -"

"It's okay. We're both tired. We should just -"

"You loved Rita, Dex. You love the kids. What kind of sociopath has a family anyway?"

"Trinity."

And he just - folds. Before I can even - like Trinity triggered everything he wasn't handling. (Or a bullet, right through the heart.)

I drag him outside so we don't wake the baby, and he slides down the wall, hand clamped over his mouth. I grip his shoulder and force his head down and start saying things to distract him. That he'd better fucking tell me he's alright, and that we're going to catch the sick bastard and fry him, and please don't you dare panic-attack yourself into the hospital? Breathe, Dexter.

I'm fucking terrified, and fucking relieved. Dexter the Hollow Man is... wrong. I wish I hadn't told him about Brian Moser, so he couldn't make that jump from our family to Trinity's home-sweet-hell. I wish I didn't know, so I could help my own damn brother without my brain making these fucking obscene connections.

At least panic is a Dexter thing. A weird, world-upside-down Dexter thing. At least, he's done it before. When Dad died, and that bloodbath hotel room.

"Sorry I'm being such a spaz tonight," he says - how often have I said that to him? "It's really not like me."

"You're allowed, Dex." Encouraged. "It's normal." I, your only sister, approve of you breaking into pieces when horrible things happened. I think Rudy would have liked the other way, iced over and dead. Was that what he was trying to do, killing me? "I can't imagine the fucking Ice Truck Killer losing his shit like that." It's a joke, but it isn't.

Dexter... actually thinks about it. Fuck, it wasn't something he should have to think about. "You never saw him when his plans weren't going well."

"I saw how he killed himself, Dex."

"Right. The suicide." Dex closes his his eyes, then they snap open. "I won't do that, Deb. I won't kill myself."

"You sure fucking better not. You -" I'm about to remind him again about the kids, but that's what freaked him out. That there are sick fucks like Trinity, like Brian Moser, who should have taken themselves out first. "You're not allowed, Dex. You talk to me. Okay?"

He looks at me. Nods, after a minute, like it's something else he had to think over. "Okay." He almost manages a smile. "I decide to make the world a better place, I'll talk to you first. Promise."

It's a joke, but it's awful. I punch him in the shoulder for it. "C'mon, inside. You didn't finish the dishes."