Outside, a cold front swept into Miami, unseasonable and sharp. The Ice Truck Killer was coming in from the cold. And Dexter, for the first time, wasn’t sure if he wanted to lock the door or leave it wide open.

I’m sorry, Dad. You taught me to hide. But he’s teaching me to remember. And I’m afraid that remembering might be the one thing that finally makes me human—or finally makes me a killer you wouldn’t recognize.

Dexter felt a cold thread pull taut in his chest. Family. Sister. The Ice Truck Killer wasn’t just killing women. He was killing surrogates. He was reenacting something. A failed rescue? A lost sibling?