Well we have reached the final episode and I would like to say a big thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story and particularly to those who have been kind enough to post a review. Your words mean the world to me!!

Please enjoy this final installment and if you have any feedback - positive or negative - I would truly love to hear from you!

Disclaimer: wish it were mine, but it ain't.

Chapter 4

While the gentle rise and fall of the ocean is mirrored by the movement of the deck, Deb's stance is sure and her aim unwavering. Her face, however, is animated with every flighty thought contorting her features as evidence of its passage. Countless emotions flow through her as we keep to our tableau and of them I can identify rage, confusion and betrayal. With the moon full behind her she looks, if a simile is required, like an avenging angel preparing to pass judgement. I know Deb and I have no doubt as to the sentence she will bestow, so I close my eyes and wait for her to squeeze the trigger.

Instead of the expected crack of a gunshot ringing out across the water I hear a soft click as she flicks on the safety. I crack an eye and watch her slip the gun into the waistband at the small of her back and pick up the knife from where it had skittered across the deck. She crosses to where I am sitting and squats in front of me, staring at the blade. I know I could disarm her, but even if I could be sure of doing so without injuring her nothing would have changed. I suppose there is some kind of poetry in this; that I will die as my brother died, but at the hands of my sister. It is the moon's familiar face I turn to; the soon to be departed Dexter bathed in moonlight.

I feel the blade against my skin, but in a most unexpected way, sliding under what is left of my shirtsleeve. I glance down and see Deb slicing the thin fabric to properly expose the ragged gash near my shoulder. She examines the wound, determinedly keeping her focus on my arm. "He was really your brother?"

"Yeah." I cannot conceive of her intentions, but she isn't doing anything unpleasant with the knife so I take this as a good sign.

She leaves my side briefly to retrieve the first aid kit I keep well stocked in case Rita's kids ever have an accident with a fish hook or filleting knife. Selecting what she needs she asks, "Are you sorry he killed himself?"

I gasp as she cleans my wound and would normally comment on her rough approach, but since it only feels like she is trying to kill me, I endeavour to be stoic under the onslaught of iodine and gauze. "Sometimes I'm sorry he's gone," I tell her and am a little surprised to discover this is true, "But he didn't kill himself."

Her hands cease their busy ministrations and she sits back on her heels, eyebrows scraping her hairline as she realises the implication of what I have said. I didn't want her response to my candid confessions to be influenced by my part in Brian's ignominious end, but I answer the question I know she wants to ask. "I had to make a choice. I chose you."

Deb's eyes briefly find mine before she returns to tending my damaged flesh. "Arsehole."

Apparently I needn't have worried that her gratitude might cloud the issue. The unexpected and ridiculous events of the evening are finally too much and despite my best efforts to behave, I can't suppress the near hysteria building inside me. I laugh and Deb starts in surprise. When my guffawing finally devolves into giggles I am gratified to see she is trying to stifle a smile.

I grin at her, slipping easily into the role of goofy older brother, and Deb rolls her eyes, "Don't look at me like that. You look like a fucking moron."

"I feel like one," I tell her and laugh again, enjoying the freedom of it. "I can't begin to understand why you're doing this."

Deb shrugs but doesn't comment as she packs away the various implements of torture. I examine her work and when my investigative fingers poke too hard, I wince and make a sound embarrassingly like a whimper. "Why do people keep shooting me?" The question is intended as rhetorical but Deb's look answers it regardless; a look that tells me that my homicidal hobby is more than reason enough.

Her face is serious when she asks me, "Why'd you bring me here?"

A fair question in the circumstances. "I needed you to listen to what I told you and really believe me, I don't think admitting you're a serial killer is something you can just tell someone over a box of donuts." Deb snorts at this and shakes her head disbelievingly. "I did promise I'd untie you," I say, hoping I don't sound as petulant as I feel.

"And I'm just supposed to take the word of a mass murderer unburdening his soul, am I?"

I am about to point out that mass murderers and serial killers are quite different but I think better of it. Semantics aside, I nod in defeat and admit, "Fair point."

I expect her to move away from me now, to put some distance between us, so I'm quite bewildered when she chooses instead to sit beside me. While her choice of physical proximity gives me the tiniest glimmer of hope that she might be able to accept what I've told her, it does make me doubt her ability to make rational decisions.

"You're not frightened of me?" I ask, honestly curious.

Deb shrugs. "I'm armed."

"I think you know I could take you." I say, and Deb gives me a venomous look clearly unimpressed. "I have lot of experience grabbing people."

Deb's lips purse and her eyes narrow as she says, "I wouldn't have my gun if you were going to hurt me."

My need to understand things, to have all the elements of a problem neatly and tidily organised, is an advantage when dealing with blood splatter, but not so useful when dealing with people. Not recognising the significance of the change in her body language I say, "But I could have been toying with you, or testing you or –"

"For fucks sake shut up!" Deb yells. Taking a deep breath she continues in a more subdued, if shaky tone, "I have to take what you are telling me on face value, I can't second guess you, I just can't."

Her eyes are pleading and I belatedly remember how traumatic this evening has been. Chagrined by my inability to empathise, I look away and we both sit in meditative silence. "So what now?" I ask at last.

"I have no fucking idea."

"I won't stop you turning me in."

Deb cocks a single brow in disbelief, "Yeah right."

Rather than speaking I let my expression tell her I mean what I say. She searches my eyes for any hint that I'm deceiving her before glancing away. "Shit," she says, and I know what she means. I'm in it up to my ears.

Deb stares at the deck for a while and I assume she is mulling over what to do with me. "The people you choose," she begins, selecting that last word with painstaking care, "Why them?"

She has a pretty good idea why, but I answer her anyway. "They're murderers, paedophiles – all sorts of very bad people."

"You're sure?" A very reasonable question.

"Completely. I'm very thorough and very selective."

Now would be a logical time to tell Deb about Harry's instructional involvement in my admittedly unusual upbringing. I am about to do just that when it occurs to me that while she has coped better than expected with what I've told her, discovering her father ran an impromptu training course for a fledgling psychopath might be pushing it. Instead I say, "I can't help what I do, but I can direct it."

Her face is unreadable as she processes what I have told her. "You're my brother Dex," she says at last, "But I don't know if I can ever be ok with this."

I nod my understanding, and try to conceal my astonishment that she is even considering the possibility. "Whatever happens next - it's up to you."

Deb contemplatively chews her lower lip, her features and demeanour giving me no indication as to the destination of her train of thought. The outcome of this evening's escapade is in her hands and I have no intention of interrupting her deliberations. I settle in to wait and contemplate a bleak future behind bars. I briefly consider that it might have been preferable if she had shot me as she intended, but a twinge from my ravaged arm convinces me otherwise.

A sigh from Deb and I know she has reached her decision and I eye her with trepidation as she slowly gets to her feet. With regal poise she looks down at me as she passes judgement, "Let's go home".

Stupefied, I blink up at her as hope blossoms that tonight will not end with my immediate incarceration. I open my mouth but Dumfounded Dexter is unable to speak. With a fleeting smile at my fishlike expression, she nods and holds out her hand. Her grip is firm and her palm dry as she helps me to my feet and I am, not for the first time, struck by my sister's remarkable resilience.

We do not speak as I start the engine and turn the boat around, aiming for Miami. The expansive neon glows brighter and noise starts flowing faintly over the water and it is as if the city is growing and coming alive as we approach. Deb takes up position at the prow with her back to me. I know this could be taken as a sign of contempt, but after my expressions of murderous mea culpa her ability to calmly turn her back it is a sign of trust that I value more than I would have thought possible. We share a comfortable silence as we putter back to shore.

When we reach the wharf I make sure the boat is secure and as Deb disembarks I gather our gear from the deck. "Slice of life," she says, reading the name of my proud vessel, "You're one sick fuck, Dex." I don't feel that I am in any position to argue with that assessment, so I shrug and clamber onto the wharf beside her. Deb helps me with the bags and we cross the parking lot to my car. She doesn't speak again until our gear is safely stowed in the trunk.

"Would you change things if you could and bring him back?" Brian - dead but not forgotten.

"And miss all this fun?" My facetiousness is rewarded with a threatening look, but thankfully not one of her high velocity arm punches.

"I'm satisfied I made the right choice," I say, not surprised to find this is true, "But you need to be happy with yours."

"I am," she says, "For now."

I suppose that is the best I can hope for, and realistically far more than I deserve.

"What now?" Deb asks.

"Well, I don't know about you," I say, goofy grin in place, "But I'm starving."