A/N: You know, I'm really impressed by how many of you jumped right on board with the idea of Brennan's relatives being river rats. You guys never cease to amaze me! Of course a few are skeptics, but the vast majority of you are right there with me, which of course makes me happy. Anyway, I wont say anything else right now, except that somebody makes a cameo appearance in this chapter, and I want to see how many of you can figure out who it is. Hint: They were in one of my previous fics, briefly. Enjoy!

Well, I ain't never been the Barbie doll type
No, I can't swig that sweet Champagne, I'd rather drink beer all night
In a tavern or in a honky tonk, or on a four-wheel drive tailgate
I've got posters on my wall of Skynyrd, Kid and Strait
Some people look down on me, but I don't give a rip
I'll stand barefooted in my own front yard with a baby on my hip...

- Redneck Woman, Gretchen Wilson

Brennan watched Sarah Leigh out of the corner of her eye as they bounced down the road for about a mile before turning just past a mailbox that had certainly seen better days. She could see the resemblance between them—they shared the same nose and eyes, though Sarah Leigh's skin, like Lydia's, had attained a deep brown that Brennan knew hers would never see. Judging by their level of color, Brennan didn't think these people had any inkling what sunscreen was, whereas she applied it daily.

Slowly the trees around them thinned, revealing another riverfront plot of grass that stretched into sand, then water. Before them stood a blue, single-story cinder block home, worse for the wear but solid. A crooked screen porch wrapped around the front and side of the house, and unlike the home itself it looked liable to fall over at the first strong wind.

Three large dogs charged the truck as it rolled to a stop, barking in a loud, good-natured way. Lydia pushed them away with her foot as she opened the door, turning to Brennan and yelling to make herself heard over the ruckus.

"You ain't scared of dogs are ya?" she asked. Brennan shook her head. "Good. They won't hurt ya but they're a little… over-friendly." Brennan crawled out of the truck behind Sarah Leigh, and was promptly knocked against the vehicle by a very large brown and white dog with a blunt head and barrel chest.

"Buckshot, giddown!" Sarah Leigh scolded the large pit mix, who had his front feet on Brennan's chest and was licking in vain at the air near her face. Sarah Leigh grabbed the animal's collar and yanked him hard, dragging him back with more strength than she appeared to possess. "He's a damn pain."

"He seems nice," Brennan said, smiling as she reached down to stroke the animal's wide head. Content to keep all four feet on the ground, the dog pressed himself up against Brennan's legs, tail wagging wildly, tongue lolling out the side of his wide mouth. Though he had looked dangerous when they approached, now he seemed about as intimidating as a cow.

"They're all nice," Sarah Leigh griped, tossing her old wad of gum into a collection of azalea bushes nearby and popping a new piece from the foil package. "That's the problem with 'em."

"Well, come on," Lydia said, beckoning the both of them towards the house. Brennan swallowed back the bile rising in her throat, clenching her fists anxiously. She had no idea what to expect behind that front door, and she did not like surprises.

"Everyone's here," Sarah Leigh said to Brennan as they came within an arm's reach of the door. "Since Abby an' Robbie died, everyone's been here. Just stayin' together I guess." With that she opened the door and thrust Brennan into the house.

Sarah Leigh hadn't been kidding when she said everyone's here. To Brennan it looked like a family reunion—a dozen adults milled around the great room of the house, which despite the name was rather small and crowded. Two children in bathing suits stood barefoot in the kitchen, which was separated from the great room by a long counter covered in open containers of food, eating sandwiches and dripping water all over the linoleum floor. Somewhere down the hall a baby fussed. Perhaps it was the clutter of frames on the walls staring down at her, or just the sense of walking into a room that already had too many people to comfortably fit, but Brennan was overwhelmed with a sudden claustrophobia.

"Holy shit you are never gonna believe this," Lydia proclaimed, brushing past Brennan as she entered the room and seemed to fill it to the brim. The family as a unit looked up at her, looking nervous and melancholy and mostly expectant.

"They got him?" a dark-haired male asked, rising from his seat on the worn-out couch. Lydia shook her head and shouted simultaneously.

"Esther!" she hollered, her voice reverberating through the low-ceilinged house. "Judy! Get out here!" A largish woman with loose brown curls hanging around her shoulders stepped halfway into the kitchen, her cigarette-holding hand still out the door. Brennan pegged her immediately for Sarah Leigh's mother—she had the same eyes they all shared, and the nose, though her face was a bit wider and wrinkled with sun and age.

"Get in here," Lydia insisted. The woman huffed and scrubbed the end of her cigarette into the doorframe, dropping it on the ground outside and shutting the door behind her.

"Ma, for God sakes that's a doorframe, not an ashtray," Sarah Leigh complained, and Brennan smiled for having been right.

"Shut up," the woman replied harshly, giving Sarah Leigh a look of distaste. "Dunno who made you so damn high-and-mighty since you quit smokin'."

"Both y'all shut up," Lydia said. "Where's Esther?"

"I'll get her," said a woman who appeared to be about Brennan's age, rising from her seat at the end of the couch and wandering down the hall into what Brennan assumed was a bedroom. When she returned a minute later, an older teary-eyed blonde followed her out, carrying a squalling baby on her hip.

"Did they find out who did it?" the woman asked, her voice thick. Lydia shook her head.

"No, no clue," she said. "They're lookin' into it. But lookit this." She grabbed Brennan by the right hand, yanking it forward and putting it on display for the entire room. Brennan stumbled, just catching herself. Most of the room surveyed her with mild confusion and distaste—she was a stranger in their midst, and at a time of family crisis no less. But after a moment, the two women Lydia had beckoned into the room seemed to grasp the significance.

"No shit," the dark-haired woman said, her jaw hanging slack. The blonde looked nearly like she was going to drop the baby, her face transforming from grief to shock.

"That's Ruthie's ring!" the blonde said.

"That's Ruthie's kid!" the dark haired woman yelled, bridging the gap between them and sweeping Brennan into an unexpected hug. She held her at arm's length by her shoulders, surveying her much in the same way Lydia had. The room began to buzz with dawning comprehension.

"Ruth like your sister?" the male who had spoken earlier asked Lydia, who nodded.

"What does that make her to us?" another man asked from where he sat on the floor, back leaned against the far wall.

"Your cousin, dipshit," Sarah Leigh responded.

"Holy shit," the dark-haired woman said, relinquishing her grip on Brennan. She began to feel rather light-headed as various relatives enclosed her in a curious circle, eyeing her like a zoo exhibit.

"God almighty," the blonde uttered.

"Another cousin!" the man shouted.

"Where'd you find her?"

"What's her name?"

"Ruthie's girl, holy shit."

"Holy shit!"

"I think I'm going to be sick," Brennan said suddenly, feeling the cool clamminess overtake her. She stepped out the front door, turned towards the bushes, and promptly threw up the last remains of her breakfast.

"No she's fine, she just has that weird brain disease," she heard Sarah Leigh explain just inside the door. Brennan screwed her eyes shut, trying to spit the taste out of her mouth. She felt someone tug on the sleeve of her shirt. Looking to her right, she saw one of the children from the kitchen, a little girl, holding out a glass of water.

"You okay?" the girl asked as Brennan stood upright and took a sip. She breathed deeply and nodded.

"Yes, thank you," she said. "Who are you?"

"I'm Eleanor," the child proclaimed proudly. "I'm five and I'm gonna be in kindergarten this year. Who are you?" As Brennan watched the child speak, she couldn't help but smile—not so much at the girl's precocity, which was entertaining in itself, but at the fact that she saw so much of her own childhood self in her features. The eyes, which seemed to be a familial trait all around, the small nose, and something about her slightly crooked smile. This little girl, however, had long dirty-blonde waves and an enviable tan.

"I'm Temperance Brennan," she replied.

"How old are you?" Eleanor asked.

"Thirty-three," Brennan responded.

"When's your birthday?" Eleanor asked.

"It was at the beginning of the summer," Brennan said.

"Mine's in two weeks!" the girl said self-importantly. "And I'm'a be six."

"How's she doin' Ellie?" Lydia asked from inside the house.

"Fine!" Eleanor shouted back. "You gonna come in now?" Brennan nodded, taking another sip of water and following the child back into the house.

oOoOoOoOo

Meanwhile, Booth stood in the lobby of the District Four Medical Examiner's Office, arms crossed over his chest and hands tucked under them. It seemed like any time you entered a building in Florida there was a forty-degree disparity between the room temperature and the outside temperature. He wasn't surprised when the medical examiner approached him wearing jeans and a sweater.

"Cold?" was the first thing she said to him, holding a hand out to shake his. "I'm Dr. Marcy Simpson, head forensic pathologist here in the district four office. You're Agent Booth I take it?"

"That's me," he said, shaking her hand and noticing how warm it was. He could really use a sweater. "You performed the autopsies on Abigail, Robert, and Laura Armstrong?"

"Yes sir," the woman responded. Booth was slightly taken aback by the address, considering they were probably the same age, if she wasn't a little older than him. "Come on back to my office, we can go over the report there." Booth followed her down a sterile hallway into a back room, which was packed with filing cabinets and cushy chairs. He took a seat and she opened up the single folder sitting on the desk before her, turning it so that it faced him.

"Cause of death for all three victims was a gunshot wound to the head," she explained as Booth unflinchingly gazed at the photographs that accompanied her written statements. The only one his eyes lingered on was the four-year-old girl; that someone could brutalize a child was beyond his comprehension. He shook his head and tuned back into Dr. Simpson's comments.

"… and all were killed within the same period of time, probably within seconds or minutes of each other," she said. "They were all hung post mortem, though I'm not sure why."

"You don't have to do why," Booth said, thinking about his squints. "You just do how. Why is my job." Dr. Simpson smiled at him and nodded.

"Alright then," she said. "Well, all three were hung post mortem from a thin rope, less like a rope and more like thick twine. You know, hay baling type."

"Right," Booth said, remembering seeing the remnants of the rope on the tree. "And they were up there, what, a few hours?"

"'Bout eight," she said. "None of the bodies showed any signs of defensive wounds or other indicators of a fight. Looks like they were killed in their sleep." Booth felt a slight comfort in that—at least the little girl didn't suffer. "Also, no indication of drug use in the panels that came back, only a slightly increased BAC in the male."

"Drunk?" Booth asked. She shook her head.

"Not even buzzed," she said. "It was real low, only one or two drinks judging by his size and the level indicated in the screening."

"Alright, so that's written down in your report then, that it's a murder?" Booth asked, and she nodded.

"Definitely a murder," she said. "And a violent one. This was an unprovoked attack; these folks were shot to death in the middle of the night, in their own homes, asleep. It's no wonder St. Johns called y'all in."

"St. Johns?" Booth asked. "Clay County SO called us in."

"Well, they tried calling in the St. Johns sheriff's department first, but they didn't want to take jurisdiction. Whenever a nasty crime happens right on the river, Clay County usually tries to bounce it over to St. Johns. We've got a bigger force over here, more resources. St. Johns didn't want nothin' of it, though. That's why FBI got called in to help on the case."

"That's… good to know," Booth said, nodding slowly. "Really good to know, thanks."

"Yes sir," she said, straightening the papers in the file and closing it. "So I was told that you'd want the remains sent to the Medico-Legal lab up in D.C., that right?"

"Yeah," Booth nodded. "I appreciate your work, now I want my people to see what they can get out of it. Thanks again." Booth stood and shook the woman's hand once more before leaving.

He felt momentarily relieved when he stepped outside into the July heat wave, the oppressive humidity sticking to his skin as he crossed the parking lot. By the time he reached the SUV, he was sweating. Ah, Florida.

A/N: I know Brennan's chapter was a little confusing, but that's how I intended it to be. It will become clearer who's who in the next chapter or two, so don't worry about it for now. Also, I'd like to give a shout-out to the St. Johns County police department. I had a little, uh... incident... with some St. Johns County officers during spring break my senior year of high school. All things considered, though, they were pretty nice guys, so hats off to them.

Anyway, enough of that... let me know what you think of the chapter! :)