Dexter's Final Cut by Jeff Lindsay

entered the system at last.
    And then we waited.
    Several more months went by while the bank busily lost the papers and forgot to file forms, and then sent us threatening letters demanding outrageous fees for all kinds of things we had never done and never even heard of. But miraculously enough, Rita was persistent and firm and the bank finally ran through its entire arsenal of reptilian bureaucratic blunders, and reluctantly allowed us to close on our new house.
    Moving day was now approaching rapidly, only two weeks away, and with her customary savage efficiency Rita had been spending every free moment stuffing things into cardboard boxes, taping them shut, labeling them with Magic Markers—a different color for each room in our new house—and stacking them in well-ordered piles.
    But as I squirmed past the boxes and into the living room, where Lily Anne was sound asleep in her playpen, I discovered that tonight Rita had done a great deal more than simply fill boxes; one quick sniff was enough to fill my nostrils with the lingering aroma of roast pork, one of Rita’s signature dishes. There would almost certainly be a plate of leftovers waiting for me, and at the thought of it my mouth began to water. So I hurried through the living room and into the kitchen.
    Rita stood at the sink, pale blue rubber gloves pulled up onto both hands as she scrubbed the roasting pan. Astor slumped beside her, drying dinner plates with a sulky expression on her face. Rita looked up and frowned. “Oh, Dexter,” she said. “You’re finally home?”
    “I think so,” I said. “My car is out front.”
    “You didn’t call,” she said. “I didn’t know if— Astor, for God’s sake, can’t you go a little faster? And so I didn’t know when you’d be home,” she finished, looking at me accusingly.
    It was true. I hadn’t called, mostly because I forgot. I had been so distracted by Chase, and Jackie, and thinking about the dreadful, fascinating mess in the Dumpster, that it just slipped my mind. I suppose I took it for granted that Rita would know I was coming and save me some dinner.
    But from the way she was looking at me now, I began to think that perhaps that had been a mistake. Human relationships, especially the whole Being Married Thing, were foreign territory for me. It was clear I should have called to say I would be late—but could the consequences really be this calamitous? Was it really possible that there was no plate with Dexter’s name on it, filled with succulent roast pork and who knows what other wonderful things? A fate far worse than death—at least, worse than someone else’s death.
    “We had a really bad one today,” I said. “We got the call late in the day, after lunch.”
    “Well,” Rita said, “I do need to know when you’re coming home. That’s enough, Astor. Tell Cody to take his bath.”
    “I want a bath, too,” Astor snarled.
    “You take forever,” Rita said. “Cody will be in and out in ten minutes and then you can take all the time you want.”
    “With his gross germs all over the tub!” Astor said.
    Rita raised an arm and pointed. “Go,” she said sternly.
    “I’m sorry,” I told Rita, as Astor stalked past me, looking like Miss Preteen Rage of 2013. “Um, we just got really, uh, tied up, and— So, is there any roast pork left?”
    “It’s practically bedtime,” Rita said, slapping the roasting pan into the dish drainer. “And we were supposed to watch that new penguin movie tonight, remember?”
    As she mentioned it, I did, in fact, remember that we had talked about having some quality family time, watching a DVD together. Normally, I would have accepted it as one of those annoying tasks that I simply have to perform in order to maintain the polite fictionof my disguise: Daddy Dexter, Pillar of Family Life. But under the circumstance, it seemed to me that Rita was avoiding the only subject of any real interest—was there, in fact, some roast pork left?
    “I am