Disclaimer: I own no part of Bones and make no money from these stories.

I put a lot of thought into whether to make The Doctor In The Photo part of this story because I had very mixed feelings about that episode. But I generally prefer to stay in canon, so for this fic, assume events are taking place sometime after The Doctor In The Photo.

Thanks so much to FauxMaven for not only helping me with this chapter, but also for talking out the issues that came up after this past episode. You're the best!


The house listed as Stephen Cunningham's last known residence was rundown. The paint was peeling in some places and spotted with black mold in others. The gutters needed cleaning—it looked like several small saplings were growing out of the overflowing debris, and water was pouring over the edges rather than flowing through the downspout. Neighboring houses all looked to be in fairly good repair; this one definitely stuck out, and not in a good way. Booth opened his umbrella as he got out of the car, then came around to Brennan's side so she could duck under the umbrella with him. Their approach up the front walkway was anything but quiet as they slipped and slid across a solid carpet of wet dead leaves. Booth and Brennan exchanged glances, both thinking that it looked as if the place could have been vacant for the last two years. Booth rang the bell; they were both surprised when someone opened the door.

"Hello, I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI, and this is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute," recited Booth. He held out his badge for inspection, and then pocketed it.

The man peering out from the gloomy interior looked like he had once been powerfully built, but had since gone slightly to seed. He was still large, quite broad in the chest and arms, with a substantial accumulation of visceral fat. His expression turned belligerent as soon as Booth identified himself.

"What do you want?"

"I'm looking for a Stephen Cunningham."

The man snorted. "What do you want my pansy ass brother for?"

"Is he here?" Brennan asked.

"No, don't know where he is. Been gone years, and good riddance."

"Do you mind if we come in? We have some questions about him," said Booth.

The man shrugged, turned and walked into the dark interior of the house. They followed him into a shabby living room; the room was dark and claustrophobic with the curtains drawn. The man turned on a dusty lamp before falling into an old recliner. Booth and Brennan sat gingerly on the sofa.

"Can I have your name?" Booth began.

The man grunted. "Dave. I'm Stephen's older brother."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Must be a little more than two years now." He scratched his head. "It wasn't cold yet, I don't think. Still have the note, could look up the date for you."

"What note?" Brennan inquired.

Dave rolled his eyes. "Stephen's always been a little wuss. Couldn't just come up to me, say he was leaving, you know? Sent me a goddamned email, saying he'd had enough and was going to go live someplace where people would appreciate him. Not much chance of that, but whatever. Left me with our parents. He doesn't even send money to help, I had to go get a job." He looked particularly bitter about that.

"What does Stephen do for work?"

"He's a freelance writer. Gets himself published in those damn bleeding-heart liberal newspapers. I don't read any of that shit," he sneered.

An alarm sounded from somewhere deeper in the house, startling Brennan. The brother grunted as he heaved himself from the chair.

"Got to give my mother her meds. You can stay there; I'll be back in a few."

He left the room; they could hear him climbing the stairs. Booth leaned over to Brennan and said quietly, "Don't tell him that his brother's dead."

Brennan blinked in surprise. "First of all, we don't know that our victim is his brother. But why wouldn't I tell him?"

"The abuse, Bones," Booth shook his head. "Don't you think this guy could have been the abuser? He doesn't seem too worried about his brother."

"But what does not telling him gain us?"

"We'll check him out and then call him in for questioning. I want to know more about this guy before we give anything away."

"Is this your gut talking to you?" she asked.

"Yes, and I'll have you please not use that tone about my gut," Booth muttered.

Brennan smirked and rose from her seat. She walked over to an old upright piano that had several pictures perched on top. The first few she inspected were of children and not much help. But then she spotted it—a picture of a young man dressed in a cap and gown, most likely a college graduation. He looked happy; an older couple—probably his parents—stood on either side of him, beaming proudly. She took Angela's facial reconstruction out of her bag and compared the two pictures; they were clearly the same person.

She nodded at Booth, murmuring, "It's a match."

When the man came back into the room a few minutes later, both Booth and Brennan were seated on the couch, waiting patiently.

"What's wrong with your mother?" Brennan asked. Booth shot her a disapproving look.

"She had a stroke ten years ago. Been going downhill ever since. Dad was ill for a long time, too. Cancer. Stephen was such a good little nurse to them," he smirked. "Now I'm stuck here doing it. At least it's just Mom now."

"We only have one more question, Mr. Cunningham, if you don't mind," Booth said. "Does your brother have any friends, girlfriends, old co-workers, anyone else we could talk to?"

He grimaced emphatically before answering, "You won't find any girlfriends. If you want to talk to someone who knows him, try Brent Fox. He works at Bank of America down the street, he's a loan officer."

"Thank you, Mr. Cunningham," Booth said. "If you could just give us a copy of that note, we'd appreciate it."

"And do you have any pictures of him we could borrow?" Brennan added.

"Sure. You still haven't said what you want Stephen for, though," he commented.

"We just need to talk to him. I'm sorry that we can't be more specific," Booth replied.


In the car, with a printout of Stephen Cunningham's farewell email in her bag along with several old photos, Brennan turned to Booth.

"Do you want to go check out that friend or go back to the office?" she asked.

Booth thought for a minute, rubbing his chin. "Let's go back. I've got the feeling that this is our guy; I want to get to work on this angle first."

"Well, he definitely seemed strong enough to be able to cause the damage we found in the bones," Brennan remarked.

"What I don't understand is why the parents never did anything about it, if it was him. If Stephen was living with them, they had to have known what was going on."

"They may have been too ill to notice," Brennan suggested. "Or maybe their son bullied them, too. And besides, we don't know for sure that it was his brother that was abusing him."

Booth just hummed in response, looking troubled. Brennan looked out the window, watching as they sped past industrial zones and shabby strip malls interspersed with wooded areas, bare trees bowing in the wind. Rain coursed along the window. She thought of what it must have been like to suffer years of abuse at the hand of an older brother, a person who was supposed to love and protect rather than hurt and torment. Then a thought occurred to her.

"Oh, Booth, I just realized. This case must be hard for you, since you were abused as a child." She thought of suggesting he talk to Sweets, but knew he'd decline.

He looked at her, his gaze inscrutable. He turned back the road and said, "You know, Bones, you say things like that and—," he paused, clenched his jaw. She waited for him to finish, but he remained quiet. She shrugged and returned to staring out the window.


Brennan's first stop after returning to the Jeffersonian was Angela's office. When she walked in unannounced, she found Angela and Hodgins sitting on the couch, his left arm around her shoulders and his right hand resting on her lower abdomen. It was such a tender, private moment that Brennan considered turning right around and leaving, but they quickly disentangled themselves and Hodgins got to his feet.

He cleared his throat. "I haven't been able to find much of interest by way of particulates," he said. "While the body was somewhat protected in the barrel, it wasn't airtight by any stretch of the imagination."

Brennan nodded and he continued, "As for what else was in the barrel, most of his clothes have decomposed; there were only a few shreds left. Along with the USB thumb drive, we found two broken pieces of a silver chain, probably a necklace. It looks like there's a section missing, though. And his shoes—pretty generic, size 10. Nothing really noteworthy on the shoes, either: some gum, a small granite pebble. Everything else was washed away."

"Okay, Dr. Hodgins, thank you," Brennan said. She turned to Angela. "I have an email that was supposedly sent from the victim. Could you take a look at it?"

"Sure," she said as she accepted a quick kiss on the check from Hodgins as he left. "I'm no expert, though."

"I know, Ang."

She handed the printout over and waited while the artist read through it a few times.

Angela's brow furrowed and she bit her lip before saying, "I don't know, Bren. It seems pretty similar to his style, but it still feels off somehow. Maybe Sweets should look at it?"

"I've got a better idea. Do you know Dr. Gates? He's a linguist here at the Jeffersonian."


A/N: The title of this chapter, Chest of Broken Glass, comes from a story you can find in The Book of Virtues. Simply put, it's a morality tale with the message of: Honor Thy Father and Mother.