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She doesn't remember most of the drive. One minute, she's standing over Dexter's corpse and the next, she's taking the elevator up to Homicide, with a bag tiredly slung over one shoulder and a heavy weight settling in her bones. She scrubs her face with a shaking hand. Her gut roils viciously as she thinks about what she's done. The elevator's worn carpet looks hungry for a helping of bile, and she almost indulges it, but no. She's already made enough of a mess; blowing chunks would just add insult to injury.
She wonders what wires got crossed in his sick brain to make him enjoy killing people, when all she feels is sick to her stomach. Though, he admitted to taking no pleasure in killing Brian Moser, his older brother. "I cried as he bled out in front of me," he'd said, but now she's watched her own brother bleed out and she hasn't shed a single tear. Does that make her a monster, too?
I don't know, Deb. Does it? A shudder wracks her body.
The elevator dings, doors opening onto the floor she's walked thousands of times, and it hits her that this will be the last. She looks around for a familiar face, not wanting this to be handled by a stranger - selfishly wanting someone she knows to be by her side through the process. There aren't many people left, but Joey, blessedly, is still at his desk. Drifting toward him, he glances up from his pile of paperwork and frowns, looking her up and down.
"Hey, are you okay?" He asks, standing. His eyes give her a once-over, cataloging every detail. She hasn't even changed out of the clothes she killed Dexter in; there's probably blood on them. Her lip trembles. Joey's expression turns worried in an instant. "What's wrong, Deb?"
You killed me, Deb. Say it.
She can't get the words out, so raises her wrists between them instead.
"I-" she chokes, the grief overwhelming her. Her eyes burn, tears finally spilling out as sobs wrack her body. There are eyes on her, the collective stare of every officer still on duty, and she shudders at the attention. Joey wraps his arms around her and drags her away.
"Let's go somewhere more private."
They end up in an interrogation room. Ironic. He doesn't turn the camera on. He should. This is a confession. As she sits, she brings the bag into her lap, holding it protectively. The legacy of her brother, the last remnants of him - his true self - are packed inside, waiting to be passed out like she's motherfucking Jack Skellington.
Joey's gaze shows nothing but concern when he speaks again. "What happened? Talk to me, Deb."
A fork in the road. She could still walk out of here, if she wanted. Clean up Dexter's body and put him in the ocean like all the others, run away to a new place with Harrison. Take the easy way out. Keep the cat in the bag. Burn the bag to ashes with the fucking cat inside so it never gets out.
But the right way is never the easy way. Scrubbing the tears and snot from her face, she orders, "T-turn the camera on."
"What?"
She nods at the tripod in the corner. The abyssal black of it stares into her, showcasing her disheveled appearance and red-rimmed eyes. Her reflection's gaze is hollow, emptied out by Dexter's dying soul taking her to hell with him.
Joey follows her gaze, staring dumbly for a few seconds before meeting her eyes. "Deb, that's for interrogations."
"I know."
The fabric of the bag in her hands wrinkles as she grips it tighter, watching as Joey nods with resignation and sets the camera to record. Its little green light flashes, blinkblinkblink and now there's no taking this back. A deep breath, and the first item comes out.
Dexter's knife roll goes on the table. She makes sure it's in clear view of the camera. Her brother explained each one to her, their purpose, how to wield them. Wanted her to pick her favorite to use on him, as if she could choose a favorite thing to kill her brother with. He even gave instructions on proper freaking technique. "Square your stance and thrust straight down. Put some weight behind it." And when she finally plunged the knife in, he gasped like a fish out of water before honest-to-god smiling, looking unfairly fond of her. Dexter died smiling up at her, the happiest she'd ever seen him. It's not fair that he gets to die happy and she has to live with this mess inside her.
"No touching. That's evidence." She slaps his hand away the moment Joey reaches out to touch the roll of black fabric. A very sad, understanding look crosses his face, the one he wears for victims, and it makes her want to scream. If she did, would it wipe that fucking expression off his face? Calm down, Deb, Dexter whispers in her ear. Relax. What's next?
Next comes the zipper case he used to hold sedative and needles. M99, AKA etorphine. Fucking horse tranquilizer. Dexter told her he used an alias to get it. "Doctor Patrick Bateman, after the main character of American Psycho. I erased it from the list during the BHB investigation." Sneaky bastard. He was proud of that, the high of pulling one over on the entire field of medicine. Fake name, fake degree, everything. And here she was, assuming doctors were smart. Apparently not.
She hesitates to pull out the next item, the shaking of her hands worsening as she wraps her fingers around it. His trophies, box number two. It's almost full already, his official count doubled in four years. Fucking disgusting. (His actual count is higher, an extra couple dozen bodies - both killers and innocent people - that he justified to her as self-defense, but serial killers don't deserve the right. They should just die. Die die die. And Dexter did.) There's only one slide that stands out amongst his collection: the one containing his own blood. She'd thought it poetic justice in the moment, to leave a piece of Dexter forever trapped within the box he prized above all else, just another killer among killers. It looked good there, didn't it, Deb?
It did at the time, but now, thinking about how there's only a block of mahogany between her and the undeniable truth of what her brother was, she thinks she'd have been better off just capping him in the fucking head. "I had a dream about this once, back when you were in Vice. You were so calm, precise. Determined. And you are now, too. To do the right thing. I'm proud of you, Deb."
Proud of her, Christ almighty. The weight of the box in her hand feels like hellfire crawling up her arm, a little preview of the pit of lava her afterlife will be spent in.
Together forever, little sister.
The air changes when the trophy box is slammed down on the table. Joey goes very still, almost seeming to be holding his breath as his gaze sharpens. Sharp eyes that look back to the first items with new, heightened suspicion. It's a trinity of carnage.
"Deb..." he starts, eyes boring into her, "what is all this?"
He asks like he doesn't already know.
"Dexter was the Bay Harbor Butcher."
A long pause. Furrowed brow. A hand comes up to cover his mouth as he comes to terms with the information. And then.
"Was?"
Like the serial killer, trinity was a misnomer. She reveals the final item: a bloody knife wrapped in cloth. The tears start anew. She lets them fall, biting her lip to quiet any noises she makes. No move is made to try and speak, because all the evidence is already laid out, no further testimony needed. But Deb-
Go away.
No. Not until you tell them all what you did. Look at the camera, Dexter croons, and she can almost feel his hands tilting her head toward the lens, and say it. Three little words, sister. Go on, tell them.
"I killed him."
The sound of scraping metal fills the room. Joey rushes out. Dexter goes silent. She's alone.