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“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I mean, why?” she said, hunched over and staring down into the glass. “What did I do to make him hate me?”
“He doesn’t hate you,” I said.
Jackie looked up. “He’s trying to kill me,” she said.
“That’s not hate,” I said. “In his own way, he actually loves you.”
“Jesus fuck,” she said. She looked back down at the glass. “I think I’d rather have hate next time.” She picked up the glass and sipped, and then swung her eyes to me. “How come you understand this rotten psycho bastard so good?” she said.
I suppose it was a fair question, but it was an awkward one, too. If I told her the truth—I understood him because I was a rotten psycho bastard, too—it would seriously undermine our relationship, which would have been a shame. So I shrugged and said, “Oh, you know.” I took a small sip from my glass. “It’s like you were saying before. It’s kind of like acting.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. She didn’t sound convinced, and she didn’t look away from me. “Thing is, in acting, you find a piece of the character inside your own self. You expand it, you shape it a little, but it has to be in there or you don’t get the job done.” She took a small sip, still looking at me over the rim of the tumbler. “So what you’re really saying is, there’s something inside you”—she tipped the glass at me—“that is like this crazy asshole.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “So? Is there?” She sipped. “You got a killer in there, Dexter?”
I looked at her with astonishment, and deep in Dexter’s Dungeon I could feel the Passenger squirming with discomfort. I have lived my life among cops, people who spend every waking hour hunting down predators like me. I have worked among them for years, for my entire professional life, and not a single one of them had ever had the faintest misgiving about Dexter’s snow-white character. Only one of them, in fact—Dear Sergeant Doakes—had ever suspected that I am what I am. And yet, here was Jackie—a TV actress, of all things!—asking me point-blank if there was a Wicked Other inside me, behind Dexter’s carefully crafted smile.
I was too amazed to speak, and no amount of sipping could cover the growing, horribly awkward silence as I groped for something to say. Short of admitting she was right, or denying everything and calling for a lawyer, nothing occurred to me.
“Cat got y
our tongue?” she said.
“Oh,” I said. “Just … just … more like rum got my tongue.” I lifted the glass. “I’m not used to this stuff,” I said, sounding rather lame even to myself.
“Uh-huh,” Jackie said. “But you’re not answering my question, either.”
She was very insistent for someone who should have been a mental lightweight, and I began to wonder whether I had been too quick to decide I liked her. She was clearly not going to accept any cautiously phrased evasions, and that left Dexter somewhat on the ropes. But I am renowned for my conversational quick feet, and seldom at a loss. In this case, I decided that the best defense really was an all-out cavalry charge, so I put down my glass and turned fully toward her.
“Close your eyes,” I ordered.
Jackie blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Acting exercise. Close your eyes.”
“Uh—okay …” She put her glass down, settled back into the couch, and closed her eyes. “All right.”
“Now,” I said. “It’s night. You’re all alone, in a dark alley.”
She took a deep, controlled breath. “Okay …”
“There’s someone behind you,” I said. “He’s getting closer, closer.…”
“Oh,” she said softly, and several emotions flicked rapidly across her face.
“You turn around,” I said. “And it’s him.”
Jackie breathed out sharply.
“He’s holding a knife and smiling at you. It’s a terrible smile. And he speaks.” I leaned close and whispered, “ ‘Hello, bitch.’ ”
Jackie flinched.
“But you have a gun,” I said.
Her hand went up and she pulled an imaginary trigger. “Pow,” she said, and her eyes fluttered open.
“Just like that?” I said.
