By Jeff Lindsay
Life’s tricky for Dexter Morgan. It’s challenging being the world’s merely serial killer with a sense of right and wrong, particularly in case you paintings for the Miami police. to prevent suspicion, Dexter’s needed to slip deep into his hide: spending time together with his female friend and her youngsters, slowly changing into the world’s first serial killing sofa potato.
Then a very nasty psychopath begins slicing a path via Miami — a killer whose twisted innovations depart even Dexter speechless. whilst his sister Deborah, a tough-as-nails cop, is drawn into the case, it turns into transparent that Dexter must do pop out of hiding and hunt the monster down. except, after all, the killer reveals him first. . .
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Extra resources for Dearly Devoted Dexter (Dexter, Book 2)
A scar ran across his right eyebrow and another down one side of his chin, but the overall impression was not disfigurement so much as decoration. ” The captain was a reasonably large man and masculine in a very well-kept way, but he looked small and even effeminate compared to the man in the doorway, and I believe he felt it. ” 35 of 147 The big man strode in to Matthews and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Captain. I’m Kyle Chutsky. ” As he shook hands, he glanced around the table, pausing at Deborah before moving back to Matthews.
Okay,” he said. He watched me with unblinking attention as I showed him how to thread the shrimp onto the hook. Then he tried it himself, very slowly and carefully pushing the hook in until the point came out again. He looked at the hook and then up at me. I nodded, and he looked back at the shrimp, reaching out to touch the place where the hook broke through the shell. “All right,” I said. ” He looked up at me. “That’s where the fish are,” I said. Cody nodded, pointed his rod tip over the side of the boat, and pushed the release button on his little Zebco reel to drop the bait into the water.
Chew it all up; let the flavors mingle. Swallow. Take a big sip of Iron Beer (pronounced Ee-roan Bay-er, and it’s a soda). Sigh. Sheer bliss. I would rather eat than do anything else except play with the Passenger. It’s a true miracle of genetics that I am not fat. I was on my third imaginary sandwich when Deborah finally came back to the car. She slid into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and just sat there, staring ahead through the rain-splattered windshield. And I knew it wasn’t the best thing I could have said, but I couldn’t help myself.