CHAPTER 47: CAUGHT
The gas station was sixty miles north of Naples, anonymous and brightly lit. I pulled in at 2:47 AM, parked near the pumps, and took out my phone.
Rita answered on the fourth ring, voice fuzzy with sleep.
"Dexter? What time is it?"
"Late. I'm sorry." I made my voice tired, apologetic, the sound of a man who'd done nothing more exciting than drive aimlessly through the Florida night. "I couldn't sleep. Went for a drive. Ended up halfway to Naples before I realized how far I'd gone."
"Naples? What were you doing all the way out there?"
"Nothing. Just... driving. Thinking." A pause, carefully calibrated. "Listen, I'm exhausted. Mind if I come crash at your place? I don't think I should drive all the way back to my apartment."
"Of course." Her voice warmed, concern replacing confusion. "Come over. I'll leave the door unlocked."
"Thanks, Rita. You're amazing."
"Drive safe."
I hung up and sat in my car for a long moment, staring at the gas station's fluorescent glow.
The alibi was partial at best. I'd been in Naples—that much was undeniable if anyone checked cell tower records. But Rita would confirm that I'd arrived at her house sometime around 3:30 AM, that I'd spent the rest of the night beside her, that I'd been with her when the sun rose.
Not perfect. But enough to create reasonable doubt.
[ALIBI STATUS: ESTABLISHED] [RATING: B-RANK (PARTIAL COVERAGE)] [CELL TOWER DATA: VULNERABLE] [RITA'S TESTIMONY: SOLID]
I bought coffee from the gas station, black and too hot, and continued driving toward Miami.
[RITA'S HOUSE — 3:47 AM]
The door was unlocked, as promised. I slipped inside quietly, moving through the familiar darkness of Rita's living room, past the kids' bedrooms where Astor and Cody slept, into the master bedroom where Rita lay waiting.
"Hey," she murmured as I climbed into bed beside her. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just tired."
"You've been working too hard." She curled against me, warm and soft and utterly innocent of what I'd done hours earlier. "The Butcher case?"
"Something like that."
She fell asleep again quickly. I stared at the ceiling, counting the minutes.
Every car that passed outside might be police. Every creak of the house might be Doakes, somehow tracking me here, somehow proving what he knew in his bones to be true.
But no knock came. No sirens. No arrest.
The sky lightened from black to grey to pale gold. Dawn arrived, and I was still free.
[RITA'S HOUSE — 7:23 AM]
I woke to the sound of children arguing in the kitchen.
"I want Cocoa Puffs!"
"We're out of Cocoa Puffs. Have Cheerios."
"Cheerios are boring!"
The ordinary chaos of morning in the Bennett household. I lay in Rita's bed, letting the sounds wash over me, feeling the strange disconnect between the normalcy around me and the violence I'd committed hours earlier.
Rita appeared in the doorway, already dressed for work. "Coffee?"
"Please."
She smiled—that warm, genuine smile that had somehow become one of the few real things in my manufactured life. "Kids are up. Cody wants pancakes. I told him we don't have time for pancakes on a weekday."
"Cruel."
"Practical." She crossed to the bed, leaned down, kissed my forehead. "You look tired. Everything okay?"
"Long night." I sat up, reaching for the clothes I'd worn during the drive. "I should get going. Need to shower and change before work."
"Stay for breakfast, at least. The kids would love it."
I hesitated. Every minute here strengthened my alibi—established that I'd been with Rita, not driving back from Naples in the dark hours. But every minute also felt like a lie, another layer of deception wrapped around a woman who trusted me completely.
"Sure," I said. "Breakfast sounds good."
[MIAMI METRO — 10:15 AM]
I arrived at work three hours later than usual, citing car trouble and a late start from Rita's.
The building felt different. Charged with an energy I couldn't immediately identify. Detectives clustered in small groups, speaking in low voices. Something had happened.
Angel intercepted me near the break room.
"Dex. You hear about Doakes?"
My stomach tightened. "What about him?"
"He's back. Showed up this morning, says he found a crime scene during his suspension. A Butcher scene." Angel shook his head. "Lundy's interviewing him now. Nobody knows how he knew where to look."
I kept my expression carefully neutral. "A Butcher scene? Where?"
"Naples. Some motel in the middle of nowhere." Angel lowered his voice. "Body was still warm when Doakes found it. Fresh kill, Dex. The guy's been active this whole time."
"Who was the victim?"
"Santos Jimenez. Ex-con, connected to the Estrada cartel way back. Criminal history a mile long." Angel paused. "Fits the Butcher's profile perfectly."
I nodded slowly, processing the information as if I hadn't already known every detail. "Doakes found this during his suspension?"
"That's what he says. Won't explain what he was doing in Naples in the middle of the night." Angel's expression shifted to something complicated—suspicion, concern, the look of a man who was starting to connect dots he didn't want to connect. "Lundy's not happy about it."
"I can imagine."
I walked to my lab, set down my bag, and waited for the other shoe to drop.
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