I paced around my apartment for a while but accomplished nothing except stubbing my toe. I called Deborah two more times and she was not home two more times. I looked out the window again. The moon had moved slightly; Doakes had not.

All righty then. Back to plan B.

Half an hour later I was sitting on Rita’s couch with a can of beer in my hand. Doakes had followed me, and I had to assume he was waiting across the street in his car. I hoped he was enjoying this as much as I was, which was to say not very much at all. Was this what it was like to be human? Were people actually so miserable and brainless that they looked forward to this—to spending Friday night, precious time off from wage slave drudgery, sitting in front of a television with a can of beer? It was mind-numbingly dull, and to my horror, I found that I was getting used to it.

Curses on you, Doakes. You’re driving me normal.

Hey, mister, Rita said, plunking herself down next to me, where she curled her feet under her, why so quiet?

I think I’m working too hard, I told her. And enjoying it less.

She was quiet for a moment, then she said, It’s that thing with the guy you had to let go, isn’t it? The guy who was . . . he killed the kids?

That’s part of it, I said. I don’t like unfinished business.

Rita nodded, almost as if she actually understood what I was saying. That’s very . . . I mean, I can tell it’s bothering you. Maybe you should— I don’t know. What do you usually do to relax?

It certainly conjured up some funny pictures to think of telling her what I did to relax, but it was probably not a very good idea. So instead I said, Well, I like to take my boat out. Go fishing.

And a small, very soft voice behind me said, Me, too. Only my highly trained nerves of steel prevented me from bumping my head on the ceiling fan; I am nearly impossible to sneak up on, and yet I’d had no idea there was anyone else in the room. But I turned around and there was Cody, looking at me with his large, unblinking eyes. You too? I said. You like to go fishing?

He nodded; two words at a time was close to his daily limit.

Well, then, I said. I guess it’s settled. How about tomorrow morning?

Oh, Rita said, I don’t think— I mean, he isn’t— You don’t have to, Dexter.