Darkly Dreaming Dexter (Dexter, #1)

by Jeff Lindsay

If only I was capable of love, how I would have loved Harry.

“Hello, I’m not in right now, but I’ll get back to you right away if you’ll please leave a message, after the beep. Thank you.” What fabulous vocal tone. What acid wit! A truly great message altogether. It sounded nearly human. I was very proud.

Really, now: If you can’t get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?

This was just no fun anymore. I wanted my brain back.

“There is a simple, logical explanation,” I said to myself. And because you never know who else is listening, I added, “And there is nothing under the bed.”

Except in my sleep, of course—and did that really count? Weren’t we all crazy in our sleep? What was sleep, after all, but the process by which we dumped our insanity into a dark subconscious pit and came out on the other side ready to eat cereal instead of the neighbor’s children?

I preferred my sister alive, rather than in small bloodless sections. Lovely, almost human of me. Now that was settled: What next? I could call Rita, perhaps take in a movie, or a walk in the park. Or, let’s see—maybe, I don’t know . . . save Deborah? Yes, that sounded like fun. But— How?

My friend had done everything but send a formal invitation reading, “The honor of your presence is requested at the vivisection of your sister. Black heart optional.”