She was pacing the length of her kitchen. All day she'd worn the floor and all night she'd tossed and turned. Seeing Booth appearing to be in recovery started a cascade of memories which flooded all of her senses. The power of the explosion. The searing heat of the fire. The thick smoke billowing out from the shattered frame of the kitchen window. The smell of burning bodies. She shuddered.

It wasn't right, Jessie. You weren't hurting anyone. They had no right. In her mind's eye she pictured Booth walking out through the front door. He was bleeding from minor wounds he'd suffered in the blast. His colleagues had seized on him, followed by paramedics. Off to an ambulance he'd been whisked, though his lacerations were hardly anything to be concerned with.

Robby, her baby brother, though he was hardly a baby at nineteen, stumbled out of the house with several more agents pulling him in hand cuffs. A gaping head wound leaked blood all down the side of his temple and cheek. Medical help was slower in their actions to treat him.

It was as though it all happened yesterday, though it'd been over a year and a half ago. Everything she had left in her life after her parents' untimely death had been taken away. The house she'd shared with her siblings had been destroyed. Robby had gone to jail. Jessie had died. All because of Booth. She'd vowed revenge. And the payback she'd gotten had been satisfying. His escape had awakened new feelings in her. Their relationship was beyond vengeance now.

I'm done with him. No more torture. No more fun. When he comes back it'll be for the last time. You can take care of the rest of him in Hell, Jessie. She grinned to herself. The trouble was, he was never away from that woman. Brennan, she presumed. Brennan who resembled her sister. There was no way she could fathom hitting her. Hurting her. Besides, she had no idea what the woman was capable of. A psych class in college had taught her adrenaline knew no bounds. No gender or strength. If the two had a close relationship, which they seemed to, then it was likely she could inflict some real damage in trying to protect him. Hell, she'd only nabbed Booth the first time because of a shock device.

This time she had to be devious. She had to lure Booth to her place. It was a game of cat and mouse. And the cat never lost track.

Booth couldn't breathe. "She" was stalking back and forth above him. Against her leg she tapped a metal baseball bat. Sporadically she'd swing it against his rib cage in an act of fury. "What did you think you were doing?"

His stomach was already burning. The pain the chemical had left him in had all but disabled him. Each blow was like a knife plunging into his chest. He tried to yell out with a voice that wouldn't come.

"You can't get away from me!"

A ruckus thunderstorm had developed outside. Hail pinged off the roof. Heavy rain pelted the windows. A rumble of thunder had shaken the boards off. She'd been too furious to notice.

Booth saw the bat raised again. He tried to roll away from her using what little breath he could muster.

"Damn it!" She tugged him back roughly. Her finger nails scratched into the flesh on his arm. "Hold still!"

She lifted the bat over her head. Lightning flashed outside the window. Its illumination touched her face and body.

Booth woke gripped by a powerful panic attack. Next to him Brennan slept on, unaware. He thought about waking her, but decided against it. Clumsily he stumbled from the bed into the living room.

Long red, dyed hair was tied back in a pony tail. She was muscular, much more than a woman should be. Pale porcelain skin set off intense green eyes and freckled cheeks.

He was falling down in a tail spin. Booth staggered out into the kitchen. He felt faint, like he was going to pass out at any given moment. Onto the edge of the counter he reached out, wrapping his fingers around the edge. His head dropped downwards as he struggled with erratic breathing.

His grip started to slip. In the process of trying to hold on his arm knocked into a glass of water that had been left by the side of the sink. Brennan had left it there before she'd gone to bed for the night. It fell off the counter and shattered into pieces on the floor.

You won't die. You'll never escape me! NEVER.

His eyes drifted down to one of the bigger sharp fragments. She was right. No matter how much progress he made he'd never be able to truly get away from her. Her voice would always be in his head, cutting him down. Making him weak and insignificant. And what was worse, no one would be able to convince him otherwise. The brain washing had been difficult to inflict, and now even harder to remove. It remained like a stubborn tumor.

I'll always be here. I'm your disease.

Booth couldn't stop staring at the glass. Suddenly it was as if he was outside himself, watching. He picked up a broken fragment. The edge of it he pushed down against the skin on his wrist.

"Booth?"

He heard Brennan, but it didn't register.

"Booth." She stepped besides him. Very carefully so as not to cut herself she managed to remove the shard from his hand. Booth didn't fight her. He went as defenseless as a baby kitten.

She moved herself into his line of vision. Again she repeated his name. It wasn't until she touched his face that he seemed to return to himself. Blinking, he exhaled deeply. "Bones."

"What happen-"

"I saw her."

"Here?" She asked frantically.

"In my dreams. My memory."

Brennan's eyes widened. She led Booth into the living room and sat him down. She near flew to her desk. If she could keep Booth talking, thinking about "her" then perhaps he would be able to give a description. Tonight Brennan would write it down. Tomorrow she'd get Angela to work with Booth's words and come up with a sketch.

Her notebook was open where she'd left it. She grabbed a pen from a coffee cup she kept filled with writing utensils. "Tell me-" She broke herself off. The last manuscript in her book wasn't her own. She read over the words rapidly. Booth. Her gaze snapped to him.

Booth was still on the couch. He was stooped over with his head in his hands.

When had this been written? Though everything seemed to be improving she was still losing him. She had to steady her emotional breathing before she could continue. "Tell me what she looked like."

"Something like this?"

Angela turned her sketchbook around for Booth to see. It was the following morning. The sun had barely risen before Brennan had called in her best friend.

On the page was the image of a striking young woman. She looked too beautiful, her eyes too innocent to be such a monster. But Booth's reaction made both Brennan and Angela believe the truth.

A forlorn expression marred his face. He nodded, then left the room. They heard the door to Brennan's bedroom close.

"I'll take this sketch to the agents working Booth's case. Maybe they can run it through one of their databases and find something." Brennan accepted the sketch that Angela ripped from her pad.

"Lets make a copy of it first. I'll run my image program against it on the internet and see what turns up."

Brennan readily agreed. "Anything we can do to catch her."

Angela paused while putting her various drawing materials away. "Sweetie, he's-"

"I know." She snapped. Sighing, she apologized. "I thought he was starting to get better, but-"

"This is good, though, right? I mean, he's remembering."

"I know. But look at what it's doing to him." Brennan removed her notebook from the coffee table. She opened it to the last page and showed her Booth's words. "I don't know when he wrote this."

"He's still in danger," Angela murmured.

"He's dangerous to himself." She shivered, thinking about his encounter with the broken glass. "I don't know what to do. I'm not giving up, but," Brennan's voice strained. "I just don't know how to help him."