By Jeff Lindsay
Life’s tricky for Dexter Morgan. It’s demanding being the world’s in simple terms serial killer with a moral sense, specially should you paintings for the Miami police. to prevent suspicion, Dexter’s needed to slip deep into his conceal: spending time along with his female friend and her young ones, slowly turning into the world’s first serial killing sofa potato.
Then a very nasty psychopath begins slicing a path via Miami — a killer whose twisted options 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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Additional info for Dearly Devoted Dexter (Dexter, Book 2)
But if I found something for Debs, I might at long last have the small opening I had hoped for. I merely had to be the clever boy we all believed I was. But where to start? There was precious little to go on, since Kyle had pulled the department away from the crime scene before we had done much more than dust for prints. Many times in the past I had earned a few modest brownie points with my police colleagues by helping them track down the sick and twisted demons who lived only to kill. But that was because I understood them, since I am a sick and twisted demon myself.
I mean, I can tell it’s bothering you. Maybe you should— I don’t know. ” 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. ” 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.
Hola,” he said, and pulled a small piece of notepaper off the floor with his tweezers. I stepped over to see what it might be. It was hardly worth the effort; nothing but a single small page of white paper, ripped slightly at the top where a little rectangle had been torn away. I looked just above Angel’s head and sure enough, there on the side of the table was the missing rectangle of paper, held to the table with a strip of Scotch tape. “Mira,” I said, and Angel looked. “Aha,” he said. As he examined the tape carefully—tape holds fingerprints wonderfully well—he put the paper on the floor and I squatted down to look at it.
Dearly Devoted Dexter (Dexter, Book 2) by Jeff Lindsay