Darkly Dreaming Dexter (Dexter, #1)

by Jeff Lindsay

My face was there, waiting for him, wrapped in the white silk mask that showed only my eyes.

I am a very neat monster.

I did the preliminary work quickly; shaving, scrubbing, cutting away the things that stuck out untidily.

dark schemata.

to sort through what I was feeling. Feeling. Me, feeling. What a concept.

placidly,

“It’s not the size of the doughnut, it’s the skill of the baker,” Vince told her. “Please,” I said. “You two are going to sprain a frontal lobe. It’s too early to be this clever.”

And of course I wake up in my apartment. Standing somehow by the front door, completely naked. Sleepwalking I could understand, but sleep stripping? Really.

“Refrigerated truck,” I said.

indomitable

The only real question was why he was the only one in a room filled with cops who had the insight to get the fucking creeps from my presence.

He was in full hunting mode, and I was merely tagging along behind like an unwanted little brother.

paroxysms

It was the rearview mirror from the truck.

Even my small collection of precious glass slides was tucked away on the bookcase, each with its single drop of dried blood in place.

It might seem silly, but I was used to hunting with a mask.

impetuous

Harry died for a year and a half, in little stages, slipping for a few weeks, fighting back to almost full strength again, keeping us all dizzy with trying to guess.

“I’ll be gone soon,” Harry said. “I can’t stop you from . . . being who you are.” “Being what I am, Dad,” I said.

medianoche

In my whole life I had only known of one such somebody. Could that somebody possibly be darkly dreaming Dexter?