Warning: References to past sexual abuse.

It was only the twentieth page of a two-inch thick file that caused you to whirl your chair around in your office and heave into your trash can, the nausea so overwhelming that you kept heaving, everything you'd eaten that day coming up in physical rejection of the things you'd just read. Thank goodness it was late, and there was no one still outside in the bullpen. Though there was ample cause for anyone out there to vomit if they read a file like this, too, you were the boss and it wouldn't do for them to see you react too strongly, too often.

You didn't know why you'd had the file pulled. It was her parents who disappeared—not her. But you were hoping for some clue, something to get rid of that lost little girl look on her face when you told her to go home and she just nodded and did as you asked. Maybe these files would hold something that might tell you—some contact by her parents kept from her by inadequacies within the system? You weren't sure—but you'd asked Charlie to have the files scanned and emailed to you right away, had him ride herd on the agency for a file that started fifteen years ago.

You thought it would be short. "I was in the system until my grandfather got me out." She'd lied to you, and no wonder, she didn't know you that well back then. When you got back to the office and saw that two inch stack, the nausea set in. You couldn't bear to read it yet—so you looked at all the other things your desk jockey collected for you instead, that file looming on your desk like a black dog. If you told her that metaphor out loud, she would say "I don't know what that means."

She also really, really wouldn't appreciate knowing that you'd had this file pulled, but she'd forgiven you for invading her privacy before when it meant solving a case. If this yielded some clue, you'd tell her. If it didn't, you'd shove it into a desk drawer and pretend like you'd never read it. So you pulled the stack over, and started to read.

The first five pages were an index. She had an index to her damned foster file. The next five pages were the intake form. Clinical, short words. "Parents disappeared. No leads from police. Older brother abandoned, reportedly looking for work." A world of pain not touched by those words.

A family assignment, a short blurb about how she seemed to be adjusting that first month. Three pages. Then two more pages of status reports. "Child more subdued than last visit, but no visible signs of neglect. Likely delayed onset of grief." And then—the next five pages, a detailed police report, and a long written statement in writing that was less bold, but still the same as the handwriting you'd recognize anywhere.

Four months she'd been with them since her parents disappeared. By her report, three months until he started molesting her. It got worse, never better. Her foster mother didn't believe her. She'd even reported it at her new school. It was only after he'd raped her, raped her, raped her, and she collected herself to run next door to the neighbor's, that someone believed her. You believed her.

You heaved. And heaved again. Kept heaving, tears streaming down your face from the force of it, the last dregs of bile forced from your nose, you were heaving so hard. You groped for the tissues you usually offered victims. Blew your nose. Spat. Grabbed the cold mug of coffee on your desk, rinsed, spat again. There was some gum somewhere in your desk—you didn't have time to get up and brush your teeth—you had to finish the file.

But not yet. First. Check. Where was he? Was he dead? Or was he still alive, and if so, where did he live? You would go back to the file in a minute, see if "justice" was done, though it never was. Jail wasn't any way to make up for things like that when they happened. You would find him, when this immediate crisis was over. But he was dead, in a car accident. No jail.

No jail. You went back to the file.

It was the usual horror story. An attractive young girl. A foster mother and teachers with collective amnesia. The bastard, the scumbag, the so evil there were no words to describe him man was an upstanding member of the community. There were forced signs of entry, yes, but they didn't believe her account of the buildup. Rather, the file read "accused and wife report misplaced and provocative attention-seeking behavior, likely delayed reaction to circumstances leading to initial placement in system."

Blame the victim.

"They treat you like garbage." She knew, when she told that little boy back in that room months ago. She'd been treated like garbage.

The rest wasn't so horrifying, in comparison, but it was enough to give anyone nightmares for years. The third family, a police report of cigar burns, deep, in her right hip and ribcage, a report of "attempted molestation." A new placement. No jail. You stopped long enough to make another check, and he was dead too, though at least he'd gone down in a violent bar fight.

Over and over, the status reports could be summarized in a few short sentences. "Child still withdrawn, making no attempt to integrate. Sullen. Refuses to interact with placement families beyond minimum necessary, but no reports of acting out or disobedience to family or agency rules, except for insistence on internal door bolt."

And now that she lived on her own, she refused to lock her door any more. Turned her back on the need for doing so.

How had she done it? The file was replete with report cards, statements of astounding academic achievement, early graduation from high school and the fight she put up to go a year early to college despite "precocious intellect but impaired emotional functioning." As if their own actions weren't what caused any impairment.

Impaired emotional functioning? You nearly heaved again. The fact that she hadn't slit her wrists by that point was all you needed to know she functioned better than anyone else. But she won out on the battle to get out, as much as she could, to get off to college, and her "family" at the time was happy to only have to give her room and board on the breaks until she aged out. And at age eighteen, midway through another excellent semester, paid for by scholarships and loans she took out, no help from the agency or anyone else, the file just ended, abruptly. As if the magical number, eighteen, made what had happened before somehow evaporate under that magical label, "adulthood."

There were no clues to her parents. No leads on their whereabouts. No one attempted to contact her after she went in. And there was no grandfather. No wonder she'd lied to you, never spoke of it. It was a horror show, the thing you prayed nightly would never, ever happen to your own child.

It was inadequate, utterly so, but you closed up the file, placed in the back of a desk drawer where it would sit, a silent reminder of what it meant to get on with your life, and left the vomit filled trashcan for the cleaning people. Went home, showered, changed your clothes—you'd heaved so forcefully that it spattered. Brushed your teeth.

You picked up Chinese, telling Sid "it's something for Bones, she's had a rough day," and knocked on her door. Pasted on a smile when she opened the door without the sound of any bolts or chains sliding away. One sign of her emotional functioning. She only left one lock between her and the world, when if you were her? Well, you weren't her, that's all there was to it, and you couldn't even go after the people who'd hurt her.

"It's midnight."

"I drove by, saw your lights were on." Right. With Chinese for two in the car. But she let you in anyway. She let you in at all, so far.

She was stronger than you—at least your mother had loved you, everything else at home notwithstanding. There'd been some offset to all the horrors you'd seen at home, and yet you were so weak that you still gave into your demons when they finally caught up with you. She'd gone on after that magical number, eighteen, to do so many functional things that no one could possibly catch up to her. Certainly not you.

And then the findings that led to McVicker, and that barn.

"My name is Dr. Temperance Brennan. My father was a teacher. My mother was a bookkeeper."

"I know who you are. Hey. I know. It's okay. Shh. It's gonna be alright."

You didn't know if it would be alright. But she deserved to have someone try to make it alright for her. And you didn't really know who she was—how could you possibly imagine what that file meant in actual experiences? But you knew enough now about who she was to have someplace to start.