CHAPTER 29: NEW YEAR, OLD HUNGER
The Miami Metro New Year's party was exactly what I expected: forced cheer, cheap champagne, and the desperate energy of people trying to convince themselves that a calendar change meant something.
I'd come with Debra, who was already three drinks in and loudly debating the merits of Times Square coverage versus local festivities with Angel and his date—a patrol officer named Carla who seemed mildly terrified by the intensity of homicide detectives at play.
"New York is overrated," Debra declared. "You stand in the cold for twelve hours to watch a ball drop. A ball. How is that celebration?"
"It's tradition," Angel protested. "My abuela watched that ball drop every year until she died."
"Your abuela lived in Miami. She watched it on TV."
"Same thing."
"It is absolutely not the same thing—"
I extracted myself from the conversation, drifting toward the bar. The precinct's break room had been transformed with streamers and balloons, a valiant effort to make institutional beige look festive. Someone had brought a disco ball that cast spinning fragments of light across the ceiling.
Eleven-thirty. Half an hour until midnight. Half an hour until a new year began and the old one became memory.
2006 had been... eventful.
I collected a glass of champagne I didn't intend to drink and found a quiet corner. The room was loud with conversation and music, bodies pressed together in celebration. Everyone performing happiness for everyone else.
I understood performance. I lived it every day.
"Morgan."
The voice came from my left. I turned.
Doakes stood by the water cooler, arms crossed, watching me with those predator's eyes. He wasn't dressed for celebration—same dark shirt, same hard expression, same air of coiled tension that followed him everywhere.
"Sergeant Doakes." I raised my glass in mock salute. "Happy New Year."
"Is it?" He moved closer, not quite invading my space but making his presence felt. "You having a good year, Morgan?"
"It had its ups and downs."
"I bet." His voice was low, pitched to avoid the nearby conversations. "I've been thinking about you."
"I'm flattered."
"Don't be." He stepped closer still. I could smell his cologne—something sharp and clean, like aftershave designed for men who had nothing to hide. "I've been thinking about how a blood analyst—a guy who flinches at crime scenes, who can't handle the sight of fresh violence—managed to take down a serial killer with his bare hands."
"We've discussed this. Adrenaline—"
"Bullshit." The word was quiet but final. "I've seen men in combat, Morgan. I've seen what adrenaline does. It makes people stupid. It makes them shake. It does not turn lab geeks into efficient killers."
I held his gaze. Let the silence stretch.
"What exactly are you accusing me of, Sergeant?"
"I'm not accusing you of anything. Not yet." He took another step forward. Close enough now that I could see the individual fibers of his shirt, the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. "But I know something's wrong with you. I've known it since the first day you walked into this building. And I'm going to figure out what it is."
"Good luck with that."
"I don't need luck." His smile was thin, humorless. "I'm patient. And you, Morgan? You're going to slip. One day, somewhere, you're going to do something that proves what I already know. And I'll be there."
"Waiting in the shadows?"
"Watching." He stepped back, breaking the tension but not the threat. "That's what I do. I watch. And eventually, I see everything."
He walked away without another word, disappearing into the crowd of celebrating officers.
I stood very still, processing the encounter.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT UPDATE: DOAKES] [PREVIOUS LEVEL: 2 (INTEREST)] [CURRENT LEVEL: 3 (ACTIVE SUSPICION)] [RECOMMENDED ACTION: INCREASE OPERATIONAL SECURITY] [AVOID DETECTION DURING HUNT OPERATIONS]
The Dark Passenger stirred. Not with hunger—with something closer to recognition. One predator acknowledging another.
Doakes sees what others miss, Harry's voice observed. He's dangerous. You need to account for him.
"I know," I murmured under my breath.
"Know what?"
Rita appeared at my elbow, cheeks flushed from champagne and warmth, smile bright in the disco ball's scattered light. She'd arrived an hour ago, after securing a babysitter for Astor and Cody—the first time she'd trusted anyone with her children since Paul's arrest.
"Just talking to myself," I said. "Bad habit."
"You looked intense. Everything okay?"
I glanced toward where Doakes had vanished into the crowd. "Just a work thing. Nothing important."
"Tonight's not for work." She took my hand. "Come on. It's almost midnight."
She led me toward the center of the room, where the crowd was gathering around a mounted television showing the Times Square feed. Anderson Cooper grinned at the camera, surrounded by celebrities I didn't recognize, counting down the final minutes of the year.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!"
The crowd joined in. Rita's hand tightened on mine.
"Seven! Six! Five!"
Debra caught my eye across the room, raised her glass, grinned.
"Four! Three! Two!"
The ball dropped. Cheers erupted. Confetti cannons someone had smuggled in sprayed colored paper across the room.
"ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
Rita turned to me. In the chaos of celebration, the noise and light and forced joy, her face was calm. Expectant.
I kissed her.
It felt almost real.
[PARKING LOT — 12:47 AM]
The party was winding down. People drifted toward cars or called rideshares, the energy of midnight giving way to the exhaustion of too much drinking and too little sleep.
Rita and I stood in the parking lot, watching distant fireworks paint the sky over Biscayne Bay. Someone in the city was spending a fortune on pyrotechnics—probably one of the hotels, or maybe a private yacht party for the kind of people who could afford to burn money for spectacle.
"It's beautiful," Rita said.
"It is."
"Dexter?" She turned to look at me, face illuminated by the flickering light of explosions. "Are you happy?"
The question caught me off guard. A simple thing that required a complicated answer.
"I'm... working on it," I said finally.
She nodded, as if that was exactly what she'd expected to hear. "That's honest. I appreciate honest."
"Do you?"
"It's rare." She looked back at the sky. "Paul used to lie about everything. Even things that didn't matter. Even things where telling the truth would have been easier. I think he just... couldn't help it. Lying was who he was."
I said nothing. What could I say? I lied more than Paul ever had. Better, too.
"You're different," Rita continued. "You keep things to yourself, I know that. You're not an open book. But when you do talk—when you actually say something—I believe you mean it."
"I try to."
"That's all I ask." She squeezed my hand. "Just... keep trying. Okay?"
The fireworks reached their crescendo—a rapid-fire sequence of explosions that lit the entire sky, red and gold and silver, thunder rolling across the water.
Then silence. Smoke drifting on the wind. The night reclaiming its darkness.
"I should get home," Rita said. "The babysitter charges by the hour after midnight."
"I'll walk you to your car."
We crossed the parking lot together, footsteps echoing in the post-celebration quiet. Her sedan sat beneath a flickering streetlight, one of only a dozen vehicles remaining.
"Happy New Year, Dexter." She kissed me—softer than the midnight kiss, more real somehow. "This is going to be a good year. I can feel it."
"I hope so."
She drove away, taillights disappearing around the corner.
I stood in the empty parking lot, watching the last traces of firework smoke dissolve into the night sky.
Somewhere in the darkness, Doakes was planning how to expose me.
Somewhere in the Gulf Stream, my secrets slept with the fish.
And somewhere inside me, the Dark Passenger was already calculating the next hunt.
Happy New Year, I thought. Let's see what you bring.
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