Dearly Devoted Dexter (Dexter, #2)

by Jeff Lindsay

We sat for just a moment, enjoying the view—moon over the water, with pedophile in noose in the foreground, very beautiful.

It was terribly frustrating to think of Reiker walking around instead of thrashing against the duct tape. Homicidus interruptus.

I would sit on the couch, can of beer in hand, watching Survivor and thinking of an interesting variation of the game that would never make it to the network. If you simply add Dexter to the castaways and interpret the title a bit more literally . . .

one of the reasons I got along with him; two artificial humans, like plastic peas in a real pod.

have always felt that it was preferable to think with my brain, rather than with certain other wrinkled parts located slightly south. I mean, seriously, don't people ever see themselves, staggering around drooling and mooning, all weepy-eyed and weak-kneed and rendered completely idiotic over something even animals have enough sense to finish quickly so they can get on with more sensible pursuits, like finding fresh meat?