It is the most cowardly ending in modern television history. The writers wanted the shock of killing Dexter but the franchise security of keeping him alive. They wanted the tragedy of losing Deb but the possibility of a sequel. They forgot that an ending is supposed to end something.

In the pantheon of great television antiheroes, Dexter Morgan was a singularity. A forensic blood-spatter analyst by day, a vigilante serial killer by night. For seven seasons, Showtime’s Dexter walked a thrilling tightrope between dark satire and psychological drama, asking viewers to root for a monster while dreading his inevitable unmasking.

Then, 30 seconds later, we cut to a logging yard in Oregon. Dexter, bearded and hollow-eyed, stares into a camera lens. He is alive. He has no code. He feels nothing. Cut to black.

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