Darkly Dreaming Dexter Jeff Lindsay. Dexter by Design Jeff Lindsay. Dexter Is Dead Jeff Lindsay. Dexter's Final Cut Jeff Lindsay. Dexter is Delicious Jeff Lindsay. Double Dexter Jeff Lindsay. After Dead Charlaine Harris. Dexter in the Dark Jeff Lindsay. Dexter Is Delicious Jeff Lindsay. Battle of the Heroes Kate Forsyth.
Hitman, Book One William C. The Acid House Irvine Welsh.
Lethal White Robert Galbraith. Friend Request Laura Marshall.
Nine Perfect Strangers Liane Moriarty. The Girl in the Ice Robert Bryndza. Big Little Lies Liane Moriarty.
The Husband's Secret Liane Moriarty. The Woman in the Window A. A Simple Favour Darcey Bell. The Last Anniversary Liane Moriarty. Sharp Objects Gillian Flynn. The President is Missing James Patterson.
It is narrated by the title character. Albert Doakes , a detective in Homicide, has grown suspicious of Dexter and is obsessively tailing him in his free time. This makes it impossible for Dexter to investigate and perhaps kill someone he suspects of complicity in the sexual abuse and murder young boys. When an unknown man is found bizarrely mutilated, Doakes recognizes the work of "Doctor Danco", a torturer who served with Doakes in the Special Forces during the Salvadoran Civil War and has come to Miami to take revenge on his former comrades. Danco drugs his victims with painkillers and psychotropics and, over episodes lasting several days or weeks, surgically removes various body parts.
Dexter is drawn into the case when Danco abducts his sister Deborah 's new boyfriend, Detective Kyle Chutsky. Amidst all the chaos, Dexter finds himself accidentally engaged to his girlfriend Rita Bennett.
While trying to bond with Rita's children, Astor and Cody , he discovers that they are showing the same signs of sociopathy that he did at their age. Even worse, I am IT. How can this be? How is it possible on this kind of night for the Cold Avenger to refuse to take the Dark Passenger out for a spin? Harry, my wise foster father, had taught me the careful balance of Need and Knife. He had taken a boy in whom he saw the unstoppable need to kill—no changing that—and Harry had molded him into a man who only killed the killers; Dexter the no-bloodhound, who hid behind a human-seeming face and tracked down the truly naughty serial killers who killed without code.
And I would have been one of them, if not for the Harry Plan. There are plenty of people who deserve it, Dexter , my wonderful foster-cop-father had said. He had taught me how to find these special playmates, how to be sure they deserved a social call from me and my Dark Passenger. And even better, he taught me how to get away with it, as only a cop could teach. He had helped me to build a plausible hidey-hole of a life, and drummed into me that I must fit in, always, be relentlessly normal in all things. And so I had learned how to dress neatly and smile and brush my teeth.
I had become a perfect fake human, saying the stupid and pointless things that humans say to each other all day long. No one suspected what crouched behind my perfect imitation smile.
No one except my foster sister, Deborah, of course, but she was coming to accept the real me. After all, I could have been much worse.
I could have been a vicious raving monster who killed and killed and left towers of rotting flesh in my wake. Instead, here I was on the side of truth, justice, and the American way. Still a monster, of course, but I cleaned up nicely afterward, and I was OUR monster, dressed in red, white, and blue percent synthetic virtue.
And on those nights when the moon is loudest I find the others, those who prey on the innocent and do not play by the rules, and I make them go away in small, carefully wrapped pieces. This elegant formula had worked well through years of happy inhumanity.
In between playdates I maintained my perfectly average lifestyle from a persistently ordinary apartment.
I was never late to work, I made the right jokes with coworkers, and I was useful and unobtrusive in all things, just as Harry had taught me. My life as an android was neat, balanced, and had real redeeming social value. Somehow, here I was on a just-right night playing kick the can with a flock of children, instead of playing Slice the Slasher with a carefully chosen friend. How could this be?
Was the Dark Passenger slipping into early retirement? Had I somehow turned the corner of the long dark hall and come out on the wrong end as Dexter Domestic? Would I ever again place that one drop of blood on the neat glass slide, as I always did—my trophy from the hunt? It started, of course, with Sergeant Doakes. Every superhero must have an archenemy, and he was mine.