Author's Note: Okay, I know, its been a really long time since I updated. I'm a slacker. Sorry about that! Anyway, thanks for the reviews to the last chapter, I hope people are still sticking with this story even though it's taking me a while to put together. Bear with me, hopefully the end will justify all the waiting. :-) Okay, that's all I have to say except for sorry again and I'll try to do better in the future (ignore the fact that I say that every time) Go ahead and read now.

Temperance dialed Booth's office and cell phone as she drove to meet Ophelia. When she got no answer on either, she left a message for him at his office, letting him know that Ophelia had called and that she was meeting her for lunch. Temperance also gave the name of the restaurant, though she knew this was mostly irrelevant information as Booth had no means of transportation to join them. She mentioned that she had received what she believed to be another message from the killer, and told him to call back before she clicked off the line.

After being stuck in a slight backlog of traffic, Temperance pulled her car into a parking space near the entrance of the restaurant. She checked her watch; she was five minutes later than she had said she would be. She cast a quick glance around, but when she didn't see Ophelia, she assumed that the other woman had not arrived yet. Hitting the lock for her doors, Temperance dropped her keys into her bag and climbed from the driver's seat.

The restaurant was busy, but there were a few open tables. Temperance found one open in the corner which afforded her a view of the parking lot and settled in to wait for her companion. She ordered a cup of hot tea and rested her elbows on the table. Her gaze alternated between the parking lot and the faux wood countertop as she waited.

Ophelia arrived about three minutes after the tea. Settling in, Ophelia looked slightly frazzled.

"I'm so sorry," she said apologetically as she stripped off the light jacket she was wearing. "Traffic."

Temperance nodded in understanding. "Sure, no problem. I got stuck in it myself."

Ophelia finished situating herself as the waiter appeared. The two gave the menu a cursory glance and ordered. When he had walked away, they turned their attention back to one another.

Temperance gave Ophelia what she hoped was a friendly smile. "I appreciate your meeting with me, Ms. Stone."

"Absolutely. Anything to help the FBI," Ophelia answered.

Temperance smiled again. "As I am not a member of the FBI myself, you should understand that this interview is primarily off the record. You will more than likely be asked to meet again with my partner, Agent Booth, for a formal interview."

Ophelia nodded as the waiter returned, delivering her tea. Ophelia took a sip as he walked away and Temperance continued. "Let's start with you. When did you start writing?"

Ophelia set her mug back on the table, quiet for a moment as she thought. "I don't know, actually. I've always written. Not always published, of course, but I've kept journals and written short pieces for as long as I can remember. I was first published when I was…" she was quiet for a beat, thinking, "in the fifth grade, I guess it was. I wrote a poem for a school contest and ended up making into some esoteric junior poet's anthology or something."

Temperance nodded. "What was the poem about?"

Ophelia smiled slightly. "Lost love."

Temperance raised her eyebrow. "You were writing about lost love when you were in the fifth grade?"

Ophelia laughed lightly. "More like lost puppy love, I guess. I had a crush on a boy in the sixth grade, and he moved away. I don't think he even knew who I was." Ophelia smiled the easy smile of someone remembering a childhood long past. "I never knew what ever happened to him. Married by now, I guess." After a quick beat of silence, she continued. "It's strange, isn't it?"

Temperance, who had been drinking her tea, set it back on the table. "What?'

Ophelia shrugged. "I don't know…life. People. How we can be so wrapped up in what is going on in our lives, but yet in twenty years we won't even remember the players, much less what the situation was." She smiled again, almost wistfully. "It's strange how easily we can just forget." This sentence was spoken in a slightly softer tone, as if referencing a specific event.

The change in tone did not escape Temperance's notice. Booth's words echoed in her head—go with your gut—and she spoke on pure impulse. "Were you raised in D.C.? Do you have family here?"

A brief shot of pain fired through Ophelia's eyes, but was almost immediately replaced by cool stillness. "No."

The response was sharp and echoed of a deep set pain. Temperance picked up on it instantly; it mirrored the way she sounded whenever she spoke about her parents. Doing her best to tread softly, she pressed on. "Where are they?"

Ophelia sagged back in her chair, not meeting Temperance's gaze, shrugging slightly. "I don't have any family."

"Where were you raised?"

"New York," Ophelia answered quietly. Her tone was rigid.

"How old were you when you left?"

Ophelia voice was cool when she glanced up at Temperance and responded. "I don't see how any of this is relevant."

Their food arrived at that moment, and the two took a moment of silence to settle it in front of themselves. When they were ready to eat and the waiter once again departed, Ophelia sighed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just…I don't like to talk about my past."

Temperance elected to once again go with her gut. Meeting Ophelia in the eyes, she answered. "I lost my parents when I was fifteen. I understand not wanting to talk about it." The response was so personal, so unlike Temperance, that she almost surprised herself.

Ophelia looked surprised as well, and Temperance shifted her attention to her tea. She was used to the apologies. She was used to the sympathy. She had always hated the stuttered words, the broken clichés that people so freely dished out in regard to her tragedy. And yet, just as Temperance was preparing herself for the flood of overused words which she knew were surely coming, Ophelia surprised her.

"They live in Chicago. My parents, I mean. At least I think they do. I don't really keep in touch with them."

Temperance glanced up at the other woman and nodded, and then elected to change the subject. "Where do you get the inspiration for your books?"

Ophelia blew out a quick sigh. "That's a tough one." She was quiet for a moment. "I don't know, really. The stories are just there, given to me, in my head. I transcribed whatever my mind says." She shrugged. "Not really a concrete method, I guess, but it's all I really know." There was a weight to her words, as though there were something more hiding behind the simplistic speech, but Temperance chose not to press.

"When did you choose to become a professional writer?"

"I didn't really," Ophelia answered. "I needed money, and I had a lot of time constraints. I was actually working as a waitress, but I knew I couldn't do that for long, at least not if I wanted to make enough money to survive. I wrote whenever I had the chance and eventually I had a book. It was like my ray of light; a chance to actually make some money, a means to finally got on my feet. It didn't really take off, but it was a start."

Temperance nodded. "I noticed that there is a large gap of time between your early works and your first mystery. What was happening during that time?" Temperance knew that this was barely a valid question, but she also knew that she was running out of ideas as to what to ask.

Ophelia met her gaze. "Life was hectic then. Things happen. Situations get in the way."

Temperance nodded. "Of course."

Ophelia continued to stare for a moment, but then her gaze softened and she glanced down. When she lifted her head again, the darkness had left her eyes. "You're a writer as well, aren't you Dr. Brennan?"

"I wouldn't say I'm a writer. Writing for me is more of a hobby than anything else."

Ophelia nodded slowly. "Hobbies make the best careers," she said with a smile.

Temperance smiled as well. "Not in every case."

Ophelia nodded. The two sat quietly for a moment, eating, before Ophelia spoke again. "How long have you had it? The writer's block, I mean."

Temperance, surprised, glanced up. "What makes you think I have writer's block?"

Ophelia shrugged. "Do you?"

Hesitating for a moment, Temperance answered. "Maybe a little."

Ophelia nodded. "It's a bitch, isn't it?"

Temperance couldn't help the slight chuckle that escaped her, and Ophelia smiled in response. The conversation began to flow easily then, and by the time the meal had ended and the bill had been paid, Temperance and Ophelia were feeling very comfortable in one another's company.

As they departed for the parking lot, Temperance addressed Ophelia once again. "Thank you for meeting with me, Ms. Stone."

"Ophelia, please, there's no need to be so formal. And I'm happy to help in any way I can."

"I'm sure Agent Booth will be in touch about doing a formal interview."

"Certainly. He has my number so he can contact me?"

"I'll make sure he gets it."

The two women smiled at one another again as they prepared to part company. "Maybe if you have some time, we can get together again and talk about your books. I'm always interested in spending time with other artists."

Temperance smiled. "I'm not an artist."

Ophelia smiled. "We are all artists, Dr. Brennan, even if our canvases are different."

"Temperance, please."

Ophelia extended her hand, which Temperance shook. "I'll call you, Temperance. Maybe we can work through your writer's block."

Tempe smiled. Something about Ophelia was soothing, and she found that she had taken a genuine liking to the woman after only a short lunch. This was unusual for her; normally she was far to reserved to truly get close to new people. With Ophelia, however, she hadn't felt invaded. She hadn't felt the familiar urge telling her to lift her walls. She had felt simply relaxed. She had to admit the company had been nice.

"I'll look forward to your call," Temperance said, and with that the two departed.

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