Chapter Three

"We ran the image Angela produced through the usual missing persons and this is what we came up with." Brennan told the others. Another teenager, with shoulder-length blond hair and green eyes, was presented on the computer screen. "Kayla Brown, seventeen, missing for two months. The state of the body is congruent with that amount of time. She was a cheerleader; the damage to her ankle is consistent with a fall she may have taken during a practice."

"So we know she is," said Booth. He pointed to the picture of the other girl. "What about her?"

"We ran her through the database, too." Explained Angela. "Nothing."

"Why would our killer leave a photograph of an entirely different person near the body?" Zack wondered.

"It's not likely the girl in that picture could have done it." Hodgins pointed out. "I mean, I've heard of dumb criminals before, but wouldn't it be less time-consuming just to turn yourself in?"

"How did this case catch the attention of the FBI anyway?" Angela asked Booth.

"We originally thought it was someone we had dealt with a few years ago, based on some of the evidence gathered at the scene. But our guy never left photos with the bodies. Especially not ones of different people."

"We'll keep looking," Brennan assured him. Though, Booth noticed she hadn't bothered to turn around when she said it.

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Brennan was once again in a state of confusion. Details were becoming clearer. Little things she could make out: windows, end tables, a bed. At least she could tell this nondescript place was a room.

The tension hung heavily in the air. Her knee throbbed, but that was merely a detail. Brennan's mind was on more important things.

Like the weapon trained directly on her. "Why?" she pleaded, a lone tear making its way down her cheek. "Why are you doing this?"

And Booth stood there, eyes boring into the very heart of her. The shot he fired was deafening; the bullet lodged in her heart.

For the second night in a row, the anthropologist sprang up, heaving breaths, drenched in sweat. There was no throbbing in her knee, but her chest felt like it was on fire. Against Brennan's better judgment, she dialed her best friend's number.

A very groggy-sounding Angela answered, "Hello?"

"Angela…" Brennan began, unsure as to why she even bothered waking the other woman.

"Brennan?" Angela sounded a little more alert. "Honey, what's wrong? It's 2:15 in the morning."

"I know, I'm sorry." Again, Brennan faltered. Taking a deep breath—and wincing at the pain—she continued. "I had the dream again."

"Booth shooting you?"

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

Brennan wasn't sure what bothered her more: the dream, or her embarrassment. "Um, yeah. I'm really sorry I woke you." Her voice shook. "You're right. It's just a silly dream."

Angela's own voice conveyed her concern. "This truly is bothering you, isn't it?" She paused. "Do you want to go somewhere to talk?"

"No, Ange. I shouldn't have disturbed you in the first place."

"Oh, sweetie, you can put an end to that kind of talk right there. We can head to the Diner. Meet me there in ten minutes."

Knowing she could use the company, Brennan agreed. "Thanks, Angela."

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After the waitress filled their coffee cups and continued on, the two women really began to talk.

"Why do you think you're dreaming of getting shot?" Angela asked. "And by Booth, of all people?"

Brennan shrugged. "Some cultures believed that prophetic dreams were sent to the holy people among them, while others thought they represented tragic events to come."

"So, you seriously think this is going to happen?" Pushing her cup to the side, Angela said, "Booth would never, ever kill you, Brennan."

"I know." Brennan took a deep breath. "And as both a doctor and a scientist, I am aware that rationally, the odds of such an occurrence based on the random firings of neurons in my brain are infinitesimal."

"But…?" implored Angela.

"But, there has to be something to it. It can't be a coincidence."

"'There are no coincidences. Only the illusion of coincidence.'" Angela quoted. She half-smiled. "Sorry. I watched V For Vendetta this weekend."

"Is that a documentary?"

The artist started to correct her friend, but decided against it. "What about later today at work? Are we going to play more 'Cloak and Dagger' with Booth?"

"I don't know what—"

Holding up a hand, Angela rephrased. "Am I continuing to help you avoid him?"

"We're working on a case together." Brennan droned, saying the words as if automatically. "It would be unprofessional for me not to cooperate."

"That isn't exactly what I asked," Angela pointed out.

Brennan sighed. "Well, anything pertaining to Kayla Brown will require maintaining ample communication. However, as for driving to and from work, socializing…"

"Gotcha. I'll do what I can."

"That means a lot to me, Ange."

They finished their coffee in silence.

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While Angela headed home (and back to bed), Brennan went to the Jeffersonian to find out what she could about Kayla. Based on what Zack and Hodgins had already ascertained, she pieced together what must have happened to the girl: a crowbar had been used to smash the top of the skull, then the body was dragged away from the original crime scene and placed under the bleachers. Brennan didn't yet know what to make of the picture found next to the body, but it definitely wasn't of the girl lying before her.

Hours later, the rest of the team came into the lab. Hodgins and Zack looked refreshed; Angela looked less than enthused.

When Booth arrived, his attention was immediately focused on his partner.

"Bones, you look like hell." He told her as he approached.

"Thank you, Agent Booth." Brennan replied sarcastically.

Booth, once he got past the fact that Bones had actually used sarcasm, mouthed 'Agent?'.

Brushing it off, he continued. "Well, on that note, I guess this is as good a time as any…"

Booth laid a brown paper sack on the computer table Brennan sat at. The anthropologist observed it, then Booth, somewhat unnerved. "What is it?" she ventured.

"A peace offering." Supplied her partner.

"Peace offering?" Brennan was lost.

"Obviously I did something to piss you off." Booth frowned. "I'm not quite sure what." He pointed a finger at the bag. "And no, it's not a gun." He winked at her.

Although meant to be a joke, the words made Brennan shiver. Trying to regain her composure before Booth suspected anything was wrong, she said, "Thanks. You can put it in my office."

"But it's a raspberry scone from Egg Harbor." Protested Booth. "You said you love those things. Plus, Angela told me you've been here awhile and you probably haven't eaten—"

"Alright, I'll take it!" Brennan snapped unintentionally. Booth blinked, surprised. Quickly, the doctor tried to make amends. "Sorry. It's the case. I'm almost done with the body, and I've been very busy."

"Fine."

Booth's cell rang and he turned to take the call. Brennan felt horrible. Booth had done something nice for her, and yet she still had an irrational fear of him.

He turned back to her. "Another one. Fairview Park, buried by the fountain." Booth lingered for a moment. "You coming with me this time?"

"No, you go on ahead. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Yeah."

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"I've been the groundskeeper here for twenty years," explained Booth's witness, Henry Benjamin. He was in his fifties, with graying hair, and as of now, an immensely bothered expression on his face. "I come once a week to mow the grass, pick up trash, plant new flowers—that sort of thing."

Booth saw the man's unease. "It's okay, Mr. Benjamin. Take your time."

Henry nodded his thanks. "Well, you see, a couple months ago, the city paid to have the fountain put in. Only problem is, grass still ain't growing in so good, and the water from that fountain splashes on it a lot. Too much water, not enough grass…I'm surprised I didn't notice it sooner."

"Notice what, Mr. Benjamin?" queried Booth.

"The mound. A spot of earth raised up a bit. That's where I found her." Henry shook his head, saying to himself, "That poor girl…"

Booth thanked him and went to ask more questions. Bones arrived not long after, going straight to work. The agent approached her tentatively. Booth could tell there was still an 'off' factor. He couldn't get more than two feet next to Bones before she'd move away. Wouldn't look him in the eye, either. Sure, Bones got lost in what she was doing sometimes, but not like this, with him, for this long.

"It's because I made fun of the title of your book, isn't it?" asked Booth as Bones examined the body.

"What do you mean?" She looked at the victim's clothing, shredded, but for the most part, intact.

"That's why you've been avoiding me and biting my head off."

"No." The woman checked out the girl's skull, moving aside thins strands of still-attached hair.

"Then I'm at a loss, Bones. If I haven't made you mad, why are we fighting?" Booth thought about it. "I mean, are we fighting? Because it seems pretty one-sided. Actually, it feels like we're in high school and dating."

Had Brennan actually heard what her partner had said, she would have blushed. However, she stood, brushing a strand of her own hair from her eyes, and relayed to Booth her findings.

"Female. Fifteen to eighteen, like Kayla Brown. Only…"

"Only what?"

"This girl died more recently. The body isn't nearly as decomposed. Some hair and clothing remain."

Booth put his hands on his hips. "So, you don't think it's the same guy?"

Brennan pulled off her gloves. "Right now, there's not enough evidence to confirm or deny that. I'll have to investigate further at the lab. For all we know, our killer may have bodies buried all over the city."

"That's a comforting thought." Winced Booth.

Brennan gave the order to have the body sent to the Jeffersonian, then made her way back to her car. The agent called after her, "Are we still going to the Prom together?" Which Bones either hadn't heard, chose to ignore, or didn't get.

Walking over to the fountain, Booth made his observations. Henry was right: water splashed up over the side quite often. It would be impossible for grass to fully cover the area surrounding it. Perhaps the guy they were looking for was already getting sloppy.

Then, Booth could hear a sort of tapping. He listened hard and slowly moved to follow the sound.

There, propped up against the underside of the fountain, water dripping upon it, was another picture.