Booth's POV

Booth started at the unexpected face looking up at him, lit up by the glare from Bones' computer screen.

"What are you doing in Bones' office?" he asked her, his brows furrowing in confusion. Then he shook his head. "Never mind, do you know where she is? I just talked to Sweets, and I need to talk to her before she does anything—"

"—dangerous?" Angela finished for him.

That hadn't been what he was going to say, and he opened his mouth to tell Angela this, but she held up her hand and cut him off.

"Well, apparently we're both too late."

Booth felt his heart drop all the way to his toes.

"Wh—what do you mean 'too late'?" he forced out.

"I mean," Angela said, her sharp gaze like a knife to his heart, "that Bren is on her way to the victim's foster parent's home, and for some reason, I really don't have a good feeling about it."

Brennan's POV

There was no point to this, that much was certain. No one was answering the door. Feeling rather stupid for coming all this way for nothing, she turned away to leave. Suddenly, the movement of a curtain caught her notice, and she saw a pair of eyes watching her from inside. Crossing over to the window, she leaned down to eye level with the child and smiled slightly. When he didn't respond, she motioned toward the door. At this, he shook his head.

She smiled at him once again, trying to seem calm and unfrightening. His little eyes widened and he glanced frantically behind him, then he backed away from the window.

Brennan let out a long breath and straightened up. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a dead bolt turning and a door creaking open.

The same pair of eyes peeked out the door, but the little boy didn't say anything.

"Hello," Brennan said softly. When he didn't respond, she said, "My name is Bones," she tried not to choke over the name.

The little boy's nose wrinkled and he spoke for the first time.

"That's a funny name."

She couldn't help the tiny giggle that escaped her lips.

"Yes it is," She smiled, but struggled with a sudden, irrational urge to break into tears. "What's your name?"

The little boy ignored her question, but stepped out onto the porch.

Brennan's eyes widened, but otherwise nothing else betrayed her reaction.

"My partner gave me the nickname," she said while her practiced eye scanned the boy. While there were no visible bruises or signs of abuse, she'd seen this too many times—experienced it too many times.

The boy's gait was off—not quite a limp—something only her expert gaze could discern. She knew that, beneath carefully chosen clothing, the boy had to have scars and bruises. But in order to be certain, she'd have to assess the bruising up close.

"You see," she said, once again leaning down to his level, "my partner is an FBI agent."

The boys eyes widen at once.

"Really?!" he exclaims in wonder.

"Yes," she smiles, reaching out and sliding the arm of his long sleeved shirt up his arm. "He is the best shot in the FBI. He never misses."

The boy didn't even seem to notice that she was now assessing the ugly splattering of bruises and contusions that colored his arm.

"Is he like Captain America?" he asked. "Jessica took me to see Captain America in a th—th—the—theee—theeeeat—tt—er…"

"Jessica took you?" Brennan asked with a casualness she didn't feel. The boy's oldest injuries weren't more than two weeks old. Right around the time Jessica went missing. The lack of defensive wounds on the girl was beginning to make sense. She'd taken the beatings for this little boy, who couldn't be more than five years old.

He nodded and his eyes grew sad.

"She's not here anymore," he said, tears welling in his dark brown eyes. "She—she said I had to be a good boy. Be strong. She said she'd come back."

"Do you know where she was going?"

He just shook his head and hesitantly reached out for her. As she wrapped his tiny body in her arms, he began to cry—silently at first, then louder.

Out of nowhere, a voice shouted, "What did you do this time, boy?"

The child jumped out of her embrace, his panicked gaze darting all around.

A large, oily-skinned woman lumbered out onto the porch with a wooden spoon. Her long, stringy black hair was too thin to cover her large head completely, and her baggy pants were torn and battered-looking.

The large woman started when she saw Brennan's professionally dressed formed crouched on her porch.

"Who the hell are you?" she asked, grabbing the boy's arm and yanking him towards her roughly.

Her glare hardened her face and her… uncomely features made her look over fifty. However, with a quick examination that came out of habit, Brennan could see that she was in her mid to late twenties. A momentary pang of sympathy for the hard life the woman must have endured vanished when she pushed the boy towards the house and he slammed his head against the door frame.

"Don't hurt him," Brennan said with a calm that belied the fury raging inside of her. "My name is Dr. Temperance Brennan, from the Jeffersonian. I work with the FBI, and—"

"The FBI!" the woman screeched. There was a curse from inside the house and loud footsteps got closer.

"What the hell's going on, Martha?" a deep voice slurred from the darkened hallway behind the door.

The voice sent shivers of recognition through Brennan, and it stirred a foggy memory deep in the recesses of her mind. It left her feeling startled and uneasy.

"What about the FBI?" the voice asked as he lumbered out into the faint light of the evening on the porch.

Immediately, Brennan recognized him. He was older, and his hair had thinned out even more. The woman was not the same one from her memories, but it was him. It had been almost two decades since she'd seen him, but she suddenly felt sixteen years old again.

"Well, well, well," he rasped, his eyes running over Brennan. "What do we have here?"