"I took a photo of the cast I made from the damage to the bone." Angela walked into Brennan's office and tossed a glossy 8x10 print on her desk. "I used the measurements from the imprint to extrapolate the full image and came up with that . . ." She pointed at the picture. ". . . as the murder weapon."

Brennan stared at the image, her forehead creased. "What is it?"

"No idea," Angela shrugged. "I ran it through all the usual databases but I'm coming up empty." She glanced at the sheet of paper revealed when Brennan picked up the photograph to examine it closer. Upside down, the writing was difficult to decipher. "Is that something else for me to check?"

"No." For a few seconds, Brennan looked the slightest bit uncomfortable. Then she laid the picture aside and folded her hands. "It's a list of names and addresses for Hannah. For their engagement party. I just sent her a message asking if she wanted to meet for lunch to discuss it. Would you like to join us?"

Angela's face twisted into a grimace as she settled into the chair opposite Brennan's desk. "No, but I guess I should. If I'm not there to stop you, you'll probably end up offering to pay for their honeymoon, too."

"I'm sure they can afford to pay for their own honeymoon." When her phone beeped, she ignored the other woman's not-so-quiet muttering and reached for it. It took longer than it should have for Angela to notice that something was wrong.

"Brennan?"

Brennan finally tore her gaze away from the phone. Wordlessly, she passed it across the desk.

Angela read from the screen out loud.

The wedding is off. Seeley told me everything last night. The two of you deserve each other.

Hearing the words spoken didn't help. Brennan's face was blank with confusion. "I don't know what that means."

Angela scanned the message again. When she looked up, her smile bordered on smug. "Well . . . at a guess, I'd say Booth finally realized he's in love with you and broke it off with her."

Color flooded Brennan's cheeks, then just as quickly drained away. "No." She shook her head. "No, Booth loves Hannah. He's happy."

The smugness was replaced by an almost pitying sympathy. "No, sweetie, he's not. And he doesn't. It's you. Brennan. It's always been you."

Brennan shook her head, adamant. "No."

Angela sighed. "Yes. Why do you think we've all been so mad at him? He was hurting you, hurting any chance the two of you had to be happy together, and for nothing! For a fling! It would never have worked with her. He wanted you and you turned him down and Hannah was just a bandaid. It was bound to end sooner or later."

"No." The word seemed to be stuck on a loop. Brennan picked up the phone, read the message again, and set it down. Her hands were shaking. "He was very clear. He told me repeatedly how happy he was. He was very specific and direct, every time. He loves her. He told me he loved her."

"Well, maybe he did," Angela shrugged. "Like, you know, I still love Grayson and Cam still loves Michelle's dad. When you let someone into your heart, they leave a shadow, no matter what happens later on. But whatever Booth feels for Hannah, it's nothing compared to what he feels for you. And I'm sorry, but if she had to get hurt for him to get his head out of his ass, it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

The wry humor flew over Brennan's head. She stared across the desk, face white, her eyes flicking back and forth between Angela's.

"I have watched the two of you dance around each other for six years," Angela said softly. "He loves you, Brennan. Trust me."

Without warning, Brennan shot up, sending ink pens rattling in their cup as she pushed back from the desk. "I have to go . . ."

"No." Angela struggled to her feet and hurried to put her pregnancy-swollen frame between Brennan and the door. "No, you don't. Sit down."

"I have to . . ."

"Sit down!" Angela took a step to the left when Brennan tried to go around her. "Sit down."

"But . . ."

Angela pointed toward the desk. "Sit down."

"Angela . . ."

"Sit down. Now. Sit!" A sharp jab of her finger toward the desk punctuated each word. "Brennan! Sit!"

She went, finally . . . reluctantly . . . with a mutinous set to her chin that warned of rapidly thinning patience. While Brennan lowered herself slowly back into her chair, Angela remained standing.

"I know what you want to do," she began. "You want to rush out of here and find Booth. Then he'll tell you his sob story and you'll pat his shoulder and tell him everything will be okay. Well, I'm not going to let you do that!"

Brennan's chin rose higher. "You can't . . ."

"No!" Angela cut her off. "No, Brennan. This is Booth's mess to clean up. He got himself into this situation and he needs to pull up his big boy underwear and fix it. All by himself! You can't do it for him."

"That's not what . . . "

"You can't go running to him, not right now." Angela's voice abruptly gentled. "Honey, I can't watch you get hurt again. You and Booth have a chance to . . . to be something great. To have something great. But as weird as it feels to tell you to slow down when you're already being outrun by snails, you have to. Whatever happened between him and Hannah . . . even if it's over, he needs time. You need time."

Brennan studied her for a long minute, the same way she examined the most minute bone fracture. Then she stood up again. Her face, and her words, were resolute.

"I appreciate your advice, and while I know you have a wider experience in these matters, you don't know Booth. I do."

With that, she stood up, grabbed the photograph of the murder weapon, and walked out.

Angela watched her go, then slumped into the chair she'd vacated earlier and looked down at the mound of her abdomen.

"After those two, raising you is going to be a piece of cake."