But that was.... Dexter rarely liked to use the word 'impossible'... but this possibly counted. It was her, it was definitely Rita. Same blonde hair, same gorgeous body, same.... actually those weren't the same eyes.
They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and while he wasn't usually one for such poetic sentiment, Dexter had to admit that maybe that one had a point. So often he'd looked down at his victims, just at that point when they realized they were going to die. When he explained why he'd chosen them. He saw the shame and the fear, the anger and the defiance. So possibly, this once poetry got it right.
This woman's eyes were different from Rita's. Darker somehow. Or maybe they just lacked the tiredness Rita had developed after years with an abusive drug addict husband,
"Clearly," he murmured, before catching himself. "Yeah, sorry. The resemblance is somewhat uncanny. Dumb of me though, there's no way she could be here."
He was almost amused, well, as much as he ever felt emotion, at her disgusted look to the pathetic excuse for a human being on the floor.
"Was he bothering you?" he asked lightly, not quite wanting to walk away from the woman quite yet.