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    This part of her ritual was different. There was something about it that made her excited but set her off. She felt agitated as she sat there waiting for the guy to come out. She could practically feel how wrong this was in her bones. She ached. Her muscles were tense. She felt like she wanted to scream. She smiled to herself, in a way it was right and yet so very wrong.

    She was wearing a long sleeved shirt to cover all the henna tattoos. She was wearing soft makeup, her mascara running down her face from the fake tears she had been crying. Her normally disheveled and short hair covered in a blonde wig that went past her shoulders in soft curls. She sat on the bench in front of Gregory James' building.

    It wasn't long, he always stayed after everyone else to screw his secretary. She had waited until after the secretary left before she came and sat down to wait for him. He always stayed up there afterward to smoke a cigar and drink a glass of scotch.

    Elizabeth smirked as he hit the door exactly when she expected. She quickly wiped it off her face as she began to sob louder to catch his attention.

    They all had them.
    Some were better then others.
    Some were to keep a schedule.
    Some to keep sanity.
    Some, like for Gregory James, were t keep to some form of a perverse life of perfection and superiority.
    Tonight his routine would change.

    The man approached looked around for a moment before his eyes settled on her. She didn't see it because her face was buried in her hands but he smirked at her. She continued to sob even as the the man's shoes came to where she could see it. "What's the matter doll face?" he asked her, it sadly almost sounded sincere.

    Elizabeth sniffled as she looked up to him. "I," her chin quivered, "I just..." she sobbed again as she saw Dexter silently move in behind him. "My fiance just got killed in a car accident and... and..." Dexter's hand went around his shoulders as he stabbed his plunger into his neck and depressed it. The man made a small attempt at a struggle before he fell to the ground.

    "And that was awesome. Is that how you do it?" as she looked from the man on the ground to the predator in front of her.

    "Yes," he said bending down to grab the rather lithe man. He reminded her of a young Christian Bale... dark hair, fit but thin with a round face. Strong chin. He would have struggled more had she been alone. He would have been very difficult to subdue. Her side burned more at the thought.

    "So much cleaner then me," she said as she watched him pick the man up and lift him over his shoulder. Elizabeth picked up the briefcase.

    "In more ways then one," he said to her which caused her to frown at him, her brow furrowing again in confusion.

    "What do you mean?"

    "My body disposal is cleaner as well."

    "How do you dispose of them then?"

    "The ocean," he said.

    Elizabeth gasped. "You're not!" she said breathlessly.

    "Not what?" he looked over his shoulder at her, his own confusion written on his face.

    "The butcher," she said conspiratorially low.

    "I hated that name," his voice was etched with annoyance.

    "But I thought that the butcher was dead..."

    "Someone is dead."

    "That's obvious."

    How exactly did they get in the car? It didn't matter they were going to the kill room. It wasn't exactly right. It was covered in plastic, just like the man himself. Where were the cleaning products? She had to be calm, what she wanted was there. What she needed was there. The tools of her trade. The things to make him scream...

    But Dexter put something in his mouth. He couldn't cry for help. If he did someone would hear him. She knew that.

    This was going too fast.
    How did they get to the kill room already.

    Elizabeth's mind was whirling with the strangeness of this all. Was it because it was so wrong that nothing was working out correctly? That nothing was the way it was supposed to be that she didn't notice the details? That had to be it. Everything wasn't as right as she needed it to be.

    There were her tools.
    There was the man.
    There was her.
    Her hair was in her face.
    She was sweating.

    When had she started sweating?
    What did she do to start sweating?
    It was the room, the room was hot.
    So many bodies, too much body heat for the small room.

    "I..." she said breathlessly again as the room started to spin.

    This all felt wrong.
    So wrong.

    Her side started to ache but not the burning throb of a stab wound but the dull throb like someone kicked her hard in the side. The room started to get obscenely bright as she stared at Dexter.

    Was he grinning?

    That image took her breath away as she heard his voice but it was far away, not from the man in front of her. He was above her, like the light.

    Elizabeth blinked again. What was happening?


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