Brennan's POV
My phone was ringing again. The little screen blinked Booth.
A moment later my phone chimed, alerting me to a new message.
Knowing it would probably just make me more angry, I picked up the phone and dialed my voicemail.
The first voicemail was from two nights ago, after Booth more or less called me a heartless automaton.
"I'm going to stop calling now, Bones, so you can sleep. But I want to say I'm really sorry, Bones." He sighed. "I didn't want to do that on voicemail. Please call me back."
Then he disconnected.
The second message was from this morning, before I called him about his thoughtless disclosures to Dr. Sweets.
"It's been over twenty-four hours, Bones." A pause. "I need to hear your voice. Please. This case is…"
He ended the message without finishing his sentence.
And then there was the message from just a few minutes ago.
"I just destroyed Eddie Falco's face, Bones." It felt like my heart lifted in my rib cage. I shouldn't delight in violence, and yet somehow this was the nicest thing Booth had done for me in months. "And you can tell Sweets all about it, if you want. Distract him with my deep well of hidden rage or whatever." There was a pause as Booth talked to someone in the background. "I'm flying back to D.C. tonight, and I want to see you to apologize face-to-face." The happy feeling quickly spiraled into anxiety. "But I won't come by if you don't want me around. I'm gonna respect your space, Bones, and I won't come until you call me."
He hung up.
No. Absolutely not. I couldn't see him yet – not when suddenly he knew so many of my mortifying secrets. It simply wasn't an even playing field. Booth now knew more about me than I knew about Booth. I was therefore vulnerable. Anxious. Tired from trying so hard not to think about the Falcos or Booth. I needed to be strong when I saw him, ready to hear horrible secrets, and able to remain composed in the face of his attempts to crack my exterior.
You're safe, you're home. I told myself. No one can touch you here.
I had a sudden flashback to that night a week ago, in the rain with Booth. I had collapsed against my door and chanted, You're out of the car, you're safe. He doesn't know anything.
But he did know my secret, this time.
I turned off my phone so I wouldn't have to hear if he tried to call me again.
I lay in bed, dreading sleep.
Angela didn't know all of my secret, but she probably told Hodgins what she knew. Clark no doubt knew everything after working in close proximity with Booth. Sweets might even know more than I did. Cam was the only one that didn't know, which wouldn't last for long at the Jeffersonian. I'd have to face them all at work tomorrow – their pitying glances, their soft voices, their unasked questions that would fill the room like the mastodon that had once stood on the forensic platform.
But their pity just pushed me farther away. I didn't want their pity, I wanted their respect. The strong persona I had built was falling apart. Everything was falling apart.
I slept fitfully, not deeply enough to dream. In my waking moments I tried to focus on Jane Doe or details of Zack's escape, the two diversions that weren't tainted by fresh dramas. By the time the sun rose I had finished two cups of tea and responded to all of the e-mails in my inbox. My editor was looking for updates on my progress and a synopsis of where I intended to take the next Kathy Reichs novel. I gave him some vague details about the terrorist cadaver in D.C. without committing to a resolution between Kathy and Andy. When I got dressed for work I donned the best battle armor I knew – excepting my Wonder Woman costume, of course. I chose a black suit and a gold-plated necklace from my time as a student in India.
Angela was the first to find me hovering over the skeleton of Jane Doe.
"Hey," she said. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine," I answered, leaning in over the bullet marks on Jane's ribs.
"Do you want me to give you details of what's happened on the case?" she offered gently.
I bristled at her kind tone. Already even she was perceiving me as weak. Of course, it would've been nice if someone had filled me in before I had been cornered by Sweets.
"No, Angela," I said. "I know Falco is in custody. Dr. Edison is perfectly capable of completing the casework."
Then I saw Cam's heels approach the table. "Dr. Brennan," she said. "I didn't expect to see you today."
"Why not?" I said, shooting a dirty look from under my brows. Leave me alone!
Someone else entered the room. "Hey, Angela, have you seen – Oh, Dr. Brennan," Hodgins said. "I – how are you?"
I snapped up from my position over the bones, ready to lash out and send them scurrying, but Agent Perota knocked at the doorway, offering me a better getaway. I took a deep breath and composed myself.
"Agent Perota, have you spoken with Ms. Julian?"
"Yes," she answered, "and miraculously the USCIS came up with just one woman that obtained a waiver of inadmissibility matching your description and Angela's sketch." She extended a folder.
I flipped to the first page, a copy of her waiver of inadmissibility. Her name was Charity Kavhutema.
"She had a fiancé," I said. "That's why they let her into the country."
"This is the Jane Doe you were working on Friday? The one I sketched?" Angela asked.
Cam looked between Angela and me. "I don't remember authorizing –"
"Angela did it as a personal favor," I interrupted.
Agent Perota shot Dr. Saroyan a nervous glance but continued speaking. "Her fiancé was an American doctor, Patrick Olsen. He was working for an international aid agency in Zimbabwe and treated Charity's father. That's how they met."
"Why didn't he report her missing?" I demanded.
Agent Perota gave a grim smile. "Exactly my thinking, Dr. Brennan. It turns out Dr. Olsen himself has been a missing person since 2005. Although his sister is still living in Alexandria."
"Let's go," I said, shooting Dr. Saroyan a look that said just try and stop me.
It was a short drive from D.C. to Alexandria, Virginia. Dr. Olsen's sister probably chose the area for the easy commute, although she may have been attracted by the exclusivity. Alexandria's revived historical neighborhoods, complete with wrought iron lampposts and colonial church steeples, gained value with each passing year, much like an aged vintage wine.
"So," Agent Perota began, "it's been a while since we last worked together, but I'll try to live up to Agent Booth."
I just nodded noncommittally and said, "Hmm."
"At least Agent Booth isn't a suspect this time," she smirked.
I didn't answer.
We pulled onto a street of brick townhouses lined with pear trees. It was another cloudy winter day; more snow might arrive in the afternoon. Agent Perota pulled to the curb and we stepped into the cold.
"I'm always grateful for your insights in the field, Dr. Brennan," she said, "but why don't I take the lead on the beginning of this interview?"
We mounted the steps to one of the identical units and rang the doorbell.
"Fine," I acquiesced. Booth's requests never stopped me from interrupting.
There were footsteps and then the door opened to reveal a blond woman in her early thirties. She had prominent zygomatic arches and mandible consistent with the Nordic origins of her surname.
"Can I help you?" she asked, looking between us.
"Linnea Olsen?" Perota asked.
"Yes?"
Agent Perota flashed her badge. "I'm Agent Perota with the FBI and this is Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute. May we come in for a moment?"
We sat on white leather couches, which I considered to be the peak of impractical extravagance. How could you keep them clean? Linnea Olsen herself was wearing sweatpants and a cashmere sweater.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I just got off my shift two hours ago."
"Are you a doctor?" Agent Perota asked conversationally.
"Yes, I – I'm sorry, what is this about?"
Agent Perota pulled out Charity Kavhutema's passport photo and Angela's sketch. "Do you recognize this woman?"
Linnea Olsen took the photo and frowned. "No – I'm sorry. Was she one of my patients or something?" She handed the photo back.
"This is going to be a little difficult, Ms. Olsen, but I'd like to ask you some questions about your brother, Dr. Patrick Olsen."
"Patrick?" Linnea said. Her cheeks paled. "Does that woman have something to do with Patrick?"
"She was his fiancé," I said.
"What?"
Agent Perota shot me a look, which I ignored.
"I know this is difficult, Ms. Olsen –" Perota began.
"It's impossible," Linnea interrupted. "I would have met her. He would have introduced me to her. Or at least mentioned her."
"He brought her to the United States in 2005, when he returned from his aid work in Zimbabwe," Agent Perota offered.
Linnea Olsen just continued to shake her head. "That's right before he disappeared," she murmured.
"Did Patrick ever mention the name Charity Kavhutema?" Agent Perota tried.
"No, no, never," Linnea insisted. Then, accusingly, "Is that the woman? Did she kill him?"
"Charity Kavhutema was shot four times in the chest and buried in an abandoned quarry," I said sharply. "And as far as we know, your brother is still alive."
"Dr. Brennan," Agent Perota hissed.
"Oh, my God," Linnea said, voice rising in pitch. "Do you think – do you think whoever killed her, killed Patrick?"
"I have no reason to believe that, Ms. Olsen," Agent Perota said gently. "At this point I'm only investigating the circumstances surrounding Charity Kavhutema's death."
But Ms. Olsen was crying, now, rocking slightly and covering her mouth with a cashmere sleeve.
"Ms. Olsen?" Agent Perota tried. "Clearly this is difficult…"
"He was acting so strangely after he got back," Linnea hiccupped. "I thought he was just… I thought he was having trouble adjusting after living there for so long. After the things he'd seen. He didn't want to talk about it." Agent Perota pulled a tissue from her pocket and offered it. Linnea snatched it but didn't wipe her face. "And then I saw him with a gun!"
Agent Perota's eyebrows shot skyward. "You didn't mention that in your report to the police," she said.
"No," Linnea wailed. "He told me – he told me it was just for burglaries. In his bedroom. I didn't – I didn't want to tell the police because then they'd think he had done something to deserve – to deserve…" She broke down into incoherent sobs.
After asking a few more questions Agent Perota extracted us from the scene. I was more than eager to leave – watching Linnea Olsen cry had stirred up a strange combination of revulsion and self-pity.
"Well that answers a lot of questions," Agent Perota said, jogging down the front steps.
"Like what?" I asked, confused.
Perota raised her brows and climbed in the driver's seat. "Well now we probably know who killed Charity Kavhutema."
I scoffed and buckled my seatbelt. "Based on what evidence?"
"Based on the evidence that seventy-percent of the time women are killed by their romantic partner. Olsen was probably regretting the romance when he was back in the states, so didn't tell his sister. Gets a gun, shoots her, and then panics and goes on the run."
"Digging four bullets out of a woman's chest doesn't suggest a crime of passion," I complained. "It suggests a professional hit."
Agent Perota shook her head. "Olsen was smart, a doctor."
"Besides, why kill Charity? They weren't even married yet," I protested.
Agent Perota sighed and shrugged. "Men do stupid, violent things in love."
Like go to Afghanistan to hunt terrorists, I thought to myself, followed immediately by, Don't think about Booth, Temperance.
Agent Perota didn't have me convinced. She incorrectly applied statistics to an individual scenario. She had no evidence. I hadn't even finished examining the bones.
"I'm going to try and dig more up on Patrick Olsen. Do you want me to drop you back at the lab?" Agent Perota asked.
"Yes," I said. "I think Charity still has more to tell us."