In an office in the centre of a building, in the centre of Sacramento, Teresa Lisbon was staring out of a window. She was faintly aware of how unproductive this was. She was fairly sure she didn't care.

"Hey, boss!"

Lisbon snapped out of her reverie and turned to see who was yelling at her. Cho. Fantastic. She was not in the mood.

"What?"

"We've just caught a case."

"How do you know that before me?"

If Lisbon had been a gambler, she would have said that Cho was smiling in his head right now.

"I had a meeting with Hightower. Jane's already in the car."

Lisbon grabbed her jacket and followed Cho down to the parking lot.

Across the country, at a table in a mid-priced bar with permanently dingy lighting and the best mojitos in all DC, Brennan and Booth were having a drink together. The world at large was as it should be.

"You seen Zack recently?" Booth asked, knocking back the rest of his whisky. Brennan's eyes narrowed.

"No. I've been so busy…"

"It's alright, you know. You have time."

Brennan sipped at her wine and raised her eyebrows.

"Explain?"

"I have a sneaking feeling that we'll get a lot fewer cases after the end of May. Just seems to be how it rolls around here. You could see him them."

"I don't think-" Booth's phone rang. Before he had even begun to fumble for it, Brennan's phone was beeping as well.

"Case," they said in unison, and smiled.

Although it was already eight in the evening, it was light and cool on the beach. The yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the wind, and for a second Lisbon felt the energy drain out of her. A calm, quiet evening. Was that so much to ask from the universe, just once in a while?

"Of all the places for a murder, the beach at sunset. Glorious."

"Jane." Lisbon's voice was cool, but she was trying not to smile. "Could you at least pretend to care about the victim?"

"I can always pretend," Jane said, and scampered off towards the body. Lisbon rolled her eyes and followed.

A young, dark-haired woman was curled, foetal, and half-buried in the sand, her feet, face and hands visible. There was a long cut across her mouth and cheeks, but apart from that she seemed peaceful, as if she were sleeping.

"Rigsby? Details?"

Rigsby walked over, his notebook in hand. He looked unsettled.

"Boss…this is a weird one."

Lisbon could almost see Jane's ears pricking up, interested.

"Weird how?" Rigsby opened his mouth, but-

"The killer wanted her found," Jane said, crouching down next to the body. "He wanted us to find her, like this. She had ID in her hand, didn't she?"

"Yes, but-"

"And she was found by kids digging in the sand, right?"

"Yes. Boss-"

"Horrible. Deliberate cruelty."

"Jane, shut the hell up and let Rigsby talk, please. What's so wrong?"

"The ID."

Rigsby handed Lisbon an evidence bag with an open wallet in it. Jane stood behind Lisbon, curious. When Lisbon saw the name, her eyebrows shot up, and she had to press her lips together to keep from smiling.

"Sara Sidle? Seriously?"

"Isn't she from CSI?" Jane said, the hint of a smile on his face. "Although the vic does look remarkably like her, now you mention it."

"It was in her hand?" Lisbon asked, giving the bag back to Rigsby.

"As if it were meant to be found," Rigsby said. Cho and Van Pelt arrived, followed by a bevy of forensics guys and uniforms.

"OK. Rigsby, you and Cho go ask around, see if anyone recognises her in town. Van Pelt, get back to the office and see if this matches any known serial killers or their MOs."

"What are we going to do?" Jane asked, as the others left. Lisbon smiled at him.

"We're going to go find out who this girl is."

The woods were peaceful, quiet. The only noises were the sounds of footsteps and quiet discussion as the scene was taped off and the uniforms walked the perimeter. Brennan and Booth ducked under the tape – Brennan headed for the body, while Booth talked to the guy in charge.

The body had been that of a middle-aged woman, as far as Brennan could tell. The bones were held together by the last remnants of connective tissue, with the hands, feet and skull all separated from the rest of the body. Booth crouched down next to her.

"She was found by tourists," he said, quietly enough that the nearby crime scene guys couldn't hear them. "They pitching a tent, and they felt something crack under the pine needles. Brushed them away, and…hey presto."

"Middle-aged female, probably between forty and fifty," Brennan said, matching his quiet tone. "Given birth. Caucasian. Probably about five-three." Booth nodded.

"Let's get her to the lab, shall we?"

"I'm sorry, Ms Lisbon, but there's no Sara Sidle living here. Isn't she that girl from that TV show?"

Lisbon sighed.

"Thank you for your help, ma'am. If you remember anything, don't hesitate to call the CBI."

Lisbon and Jane walked back to the car, defeated. Or at least, Lisbon felt defeated. Jane looked delighted.

"What?"

"What what?"

"Why the smile?"

Jane only smiled wider, and opened the door for Lisbon. She nodded her thanks.

"I'm having a premonition," he said, as they pulled away from the apartment building.

"A premonition?" If Lisbon's voice sounded any more disbelieving, it would loop right back around into gullible.

"A premonition. This girl won't exist. We'll run her prints and dentals and DNA and all that shiny razzmatazz, and we'll come up empty handed."

"Sounds likely," Lisbon sighed. "Why the smile?"

"I like an interesting case," Jane said. "And this promises to be interesting."

"Sweetie."

Angela's head, seemingly disconnected from the rest of her body, poked around Brennan's door.

"Ange. Any luck?"

"Yes and no."

"How can it be yes and no? Either you found a hit or not."

"I found a hit alright. Just not one that actually works in the real world."

"Ange, you're going to have to be clearer. Metaphors aren't my strong suit. Which was itself a metaphor. The reconstruction?"

Angela flipped her sketchpad over. Her drawing was, as Brennan had expected, of a middle-aged woman. Her hair was blonde, and Angela had given her a kind, thoughtful face. As always.

"I don't see the problem, Ange."

Angela rolled her eyes.

"No, of course you don't."

Cam walked past them at that moment, and Brennan waved her over.

"Cam, why shouldn't this be right? Angela seems baffled."

Cam looked at Angela's sketch. She looked at Angela's own face, which looked puzzled. She went back to the sketch.

"Are you sure?"

"Yep. Checked it twice."

"Well, isn't that weird."

"I know, right?"

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?"

Brennan's voice was small but irritated.

"This woman's name was Alex Eames," Cam said, and Angela began to giggle a little.

"Why is that funny? Shouldn't that be sad? Did you know her, Cam?"

"It's funny because Alex Eames is from a cop show," Cam said patiently. "One of those police procedurals with a pair of mismatched partners, some sexual tension, a by-the-book boss…my point being, she's fictional."

"Oh." Now Brennan looked as confused as Angela. "But that isn't possible."

"That would seem to be our problem," Cam agreed, before Angela broke into giggles again.

Lisbon, now back at her desk with a mug of coffee and a headache, was trawling through case files. It was quite late now, and Jane was asleep on her couch. He slept like a dead man – perfectly still, eerily quiet.

A hit popped up in a recent folder. She opened it, and read the summary.

"Damn," she said, and rubbed her eyes. "We've got a serial killer."