It really isn't fair, is it? I mean, this whole life thing. Here I was, still defending myself from an accusation of murder-from my own foster flesh and blood!-and at the same time being asked to solve the crime. I had to admire the mental agility that allowed Deborah to perform that kind of cerebral tumbling act, but I also had to wish she would direct her creative thinking at somebody else.

"I don't know who did this," I said. "And I don't-I'm not getting any, um, ideas about it."
She stared at me very hard indeed. "Why should I believe that, either?" she said.

"Deborah," I said, and I hesitated. Was this the time to tell her about the Dark Passenger and its present absence? There was a very uncomfortable series of sensations sloshing through me, somewhat like the onset of the flu. Could these be emotions, pounding at the defenseless coastline of Dexter, like huge tidal waves of toxic sludge? If so, it was no wonder humans were such miserable creatures. This was an awful experience.

"Listen, Deborah," I said again, trying to think of a way to start.
"I am listening, for Christ's sake," she said. "But you're not saying anything."
"It's hard to say," I said. "I've never said it before."
"This would be a great time to start."

"I, uh-I have this thing inside me," I said, aware that I sounded like a complete idiot and feeling a strange heat rising into my cheeks. "What do you mean," she demanded. "You've got cancer?" "No, no, it's-I hear, um-It tells me things," I said. For some reason I had to look away from Deborah. There was a photograph of a naked man's torso on the wall; I looked back to Deborah.

"Jesus," she said. "You mean you hear voices? Jesus Christ, Dex."
"No," I said. "It's not like hearing voices. Not exactly."
"Well then what the fuck?" she said.

I had to look at the naked torso again, and then blow out a large breath before I could look back at Deborah. "When I get one of my hunches about, you know. At a crime scene," I said. "It's because this…thing is telling me." Deborah's face was frozen over, completely immobile, as if she was listening to a confession of terrible deeds; which she was, of course.

"So it tells you, what?" she said. "Hey, somebody who thinks he's Batman did this."
"Kind of," I said. "Just, you know. The little hints I used to get."
"Used to get," she said.

I really had to look away again. "It's gone, Deborah," I said. "Something about all this Moloch stuff scared it away. That's never happened before."