Of all the things my relationship with Rita could have led me to, this is the most unexpected - and the most dangerous.
"Tell me why you are here, Mr. Morgan."
"My girlfriend told me to," I say simulating rueful amusement.
"The psychologist referred to us by Rita's therapist smiles thinly. "Ah. Problems in your relationship?"
What do women send their otherwise normal boyfriends to psychologists for? "She thinks I have problems getting in touch with my feelings. Women, you know." I don't. And I have nothing to get in touch with, either, but I can't let anybody know.
"Yes, I imagine she does. And how does that make you feel?"
I shrug. "I don't know." Harry had warned me about psychologists. He taught me how cops think, but I don't know how doctors do, the kind of things they look for.
"Mr. Morgan, tell me about your father."
This man makes me nervous, twitchy. "He was called Harry. He was a cop." I can't smell blood, but I feel almost as if I could.
"Did Harry know that you are a sociopath, Dexter?"
I can't avoid looking at him in a way Good Boy Dexter wouldn't. He is smiling, empty and sharp.
I recognize that smile from my own face.
Will I have to kill him? I'd rather not.
I already like this Dr. Lecter.