Darcy's grandmother always said that law enforcement ran in the family. Henry Fitzwilliam had been chief of police; Edward Fitzwilliam was head detective by thirty-five; Catherine Fitzwilliam, either bucking tradition or diving into it, was interim director of some vastly important department that nobody had ever heard of. The next generation had followed their lead: Violet in the police, Colin in the FBI. Even Andy, Catherine's stepson, did his part.
They all knew that Darcy would join them in due time. Henry had made certain of that - ensured that nothing less than a shining career awaited his firstborn.
Darcy knew it herself. Then she turned thirteen and discovered puberty, adolescent rebellion, and anthropology in the same month.
Fifteen years later, she faced the director of the Washington Institute, eyes blazing. "Dr Addison, the FBI will never take scientists seriously if you loan us out like office temps. I am not property; you cannot possibly mean to give me to some testosterone-filled gunslinger with a unibrow and a God complex. Moreover, the remains I am currently studying are of significantly greater value to the Institute's reputation than -"
Dr Addison bit back a smile. "Ah, Agent Bennet. Welcome to the Washington Institute."
Darcy whirled around. A tall, dark-eyed man - presumably Bennet - stood in the doorway, smiling widely. His cheek was dimpled and his eyebrows clearly differentiated.
"Thanks, Dr Addison," said Bennet. "As I said on the phone, we'll be grateful for any help you can offer us."
Dr Addison beamed. "As a matter of fact, I think we can. This is Dr Darcy Fitzwilliam, our forensic anthropologist, and a renowned expert at identifying skeletal remains. Dr Fitzwilliam, this is Special Agent Bennet of Major Crime Investigation, with whom you will be working from now on."
"Dr Fitzwilliam." Bennet offered his hand.
Darcy took it with only a slight curl of her lip. "Agent Bennet."