While flying on the plane, Larry recalled a conversation he had with Dexter a few days ago.
They were both sitting on a bench, far from the noise of the hospital. In front of them, a fountain—the most attractive feature of the place—brought a sense of peace to the hospital grounds.
Larry had his arm in a sling and some bandages still visible beneath his shirt. Even so, his gaze retained that sharp glint—the look of someone who had crossed the line and had no intention of going back.
"I guess I should thank you," Larry finally broke the silence, still staring at the fountain.
Dexter didn't reply right away. He was watching the water. Always moving, always hiding things.
"I didn't do it for you..."
After a long pause, Dexter finally spoke: "I did it because if you went down, so would I."
Larry nodded slightly. He understood better than anyone. "You did well. Every trace was erased, every detail adjusted to match the official version. The report... it looked legit. Even to me."
Dexter just sighed. He knew. He'd done it countless times. It was his craft—making the truth disappear and replacing it with something useful.
"Why?" Larry pressed, without looking at him. "Why carry this burden when you could've just gotten rid of me?"
"Because someone had to," Dexter said, finally turning his head toward him. "And you... you don't deserve to be dragged to hell just for getting your hands dirty with a monster who had it coming."
Silence…
A few seconds passed as they both breathed in the cool evening air.
"You know…" Larry said, breaking the pause, "There's always something rotten in this city. Something hiding behind suits, badges, and speeches about justice. You and I... we're necessary. Not because we're good, but because we understand the darkness."
Dexter looked at him. For the first time, not with suspicion—but with something close to respect. As if he understood him.
"When you're ready…" Larry said, slowly getting to his feet, "I'll call you. Not to save anyone. But to hunt even bigger predators."
And without another word, he walked away slowly.
Dexter followed him with his eyes. He didn't smile. But something inside him—something long buried—felt… accompanied. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't alone in the dark.
And Larry, walking away, thought that Dexter wasn't the kind of killer he needed to worry about.
That night, he could've shot him with Sergeant Doakes' gun, told the same story, and no one would've suspected a thing. But instead, he helped him and covered the entire case.
That meant Dexter didn't kill innocent cookies like Larry once suspected.
"I hope I come back…"
…
When Alan woke up, the flight was over.
Jack looked at him and said, "I'm taking you to your new home. You'll have everything you need there until you recover."
"I'll be fine in a few days."
"Hey." Jack made Larry look at him and said firmly, "I want you back more than anyone, but I need you in top shape so you're not a burden."
"That sounds reasonable." Alan looked at the house near the forest and walked toward it while others helped with his luggage.
Just before he went inside, Jack asked one last question: "Are you really okay with helping me?"
"I'm the one who called you. When I heard you were having trouble, I wanted to solve this case before going after my prey," Larry said without turning around.
He had many reasons. The truth was, if he wanted to find his family's killer, he first had to make sure Sergeant Doakes wouldn't turn him in.
The more time passed, the better his chances.