The beach was chaos disguised as procedure.

Crime scene tape flapped weakly in the sea breeze, the sound barely audible beneath the low hum of radios and murmured witness statements. The sun was merciless, baking the sand and the body that lay crumpled at the center of it all — Joel Walker, forty-two, a principal whose reputation had more cracks than the boardwalk behind him. Twelve stab wounds, precise and angry. The message beside him bled into the grit like a last warning: Stay away from our business.

Masuka crouched near the corpse, his voice light despite the heat. “Temperature’s off. Fingertips are cold — like, freezer cold. Guy was probably chilled before delivery.”

Deb snorted, shifting her weight from one boot to the other. “Great. So we got ourselves a psycho with a refrigerator fetish. Miami’s full of culinary geniuses.”

LaGuerta ignored her, the edges of her blazer sharp even in the wind. “Keep the area clear! I want full perimeter samples before the tide screws with my crime scene. Batista, coordinate with the techs — I want ID confirmation from Walker’s mother before we move the body.”

The woman in question wept a few yards away, her sobs folding into the rhythm of the surf. A uniformed officer tried offering water; she didn’t see him. Dexter lingered a step outside the main circle, camera in hand, documenting patterns. Blood spray, directionality, angle. The details spoke louder than grief ever could.

Twelve stabs. Consistent depth. Someone disciplined. Someone patient. Messages written in blood are never for the dead. They’re for the living who know exactly what it means.

He moved with mechanical calm, eyes half on the scene, half on Doakes — who paced just out of frame, restless energy coiled beneath his skin. The sergeant had that look again, the one that meant his gut was chewing at something unseen.

“Motherf—” Doakes stopped mid-breath, head snapping toward the line of tape.

The shift was subtle at first — a ripple of whispers rolling through the crowd beyond the perimeter. Someone gasped. Someone else lifted a phone before a uniform barked at them to lower it. LaGuerta’s voice cut across the noise, sharp and immediate. “What now? Keep them back!”

But the murmurs kept spreading, like a wave breaking in slow motion.

Dexter straightened, following Doakes’s line of sight. The crowd was parting. And through the slit of sunlight and police tape, someone familiar was walking toward them.

White shirt. Vest. Boots that sank gracefully into sand instead of stumbling. The kind of composure that didn’t belong at a crime scene.

Recognition flickered. Not from the face — from the reaction it caused.

Doakes cursed under his breath again, low and venomous. “Of all goddamn times…”

LaGuerta was already turning, confusion in her tone. “Sergeant, what’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” Doakes’s voice was clipped, a shade too fast. He motioned toward a nearby detective.“Batista, you’re running point until I’m back.”

Dexter watched the tension in his shoulders, the deliberate control. Doakes didn’t just recognize whoever was approaching. he feared the implication of them being here. The wrong kind of attention. The kind that sticks.

Interesting. Even sharks circle slower when another predator enters the water.

The murmurs grew louder as {{user}} crossed the sand, sunlight flaring off polished buttons, face calm against the glare. Doakes met them halfway, hand closing around their arm before a single word could leave their mouth.

“Not here. Not now.”

No explanation, no glance back. Just a pull — firm, commanding — dragging {{user}} past the line of patrol cars and away from the echo of cameras and questions. LaGuerta started to call after him, but the look he shot over his shoulder froze her mid-breath. She turned back to the corpse instead, muttering something about egos and heatstroke.

Dexter’s camera clicked once more, shutter sound cutting clean through the noise. His gaze lingered on the space Doakes had just vacated. and for the first time on the morning he smiled.