A/N: I am having way too much fun with this. It's kind of creepy. Tee-hee...Anywho, this chapter is just some deep thought and some necessary plot advancements. I thought about skipping ahead, but then I realized that would be just plain stupid. This chapter may not be the most exciting one, but next chapter [insert drum roll here showcases none other than the squint squad in all their shining glory. A big thank you to all who reviewed!!! You guys are awesome! Alrighty, enough of my babbling...On with the show!

Disclaimer: Rachel's mine, but that's the extent of it.

-CHAPTER 6-

Rachel sat still as a stone in her chair, her head slightly tilted away from the rest of the passengers on the bustling train. She kept her gaze fixed to the window. Blurry images flitted in and out of view like a bunch of fruit tossed carelessly into a blender. It was difficult to distinguish a tree from a blade of grass. Every time her eyes focused on one of the many shadowy outlines, the figure would quickly fade out of sight, never to be seen again.

She had come to find that her nerves had gnawed away at every last bit of sanity she had to her name. Logic told her that this was crazy. No, it was more than crazy. This was ridiculously idiotic. What was she thinking? That she could waltz into the Jeffersonian and announce that she was the daughter of world renowned forensic anthropologist Doctor Temperance Brennan? That she could knock on the FBI's door and claim that she was the daughter of Special Agent Seeley Booth?

"Excuse me, Miss." Rachel tore her gaze away from the scenery and redirected it at a blond attendant. The young woman's knuckles gripped tightly to a tiny cart piled high with complimentary refreshments. "May I interest you in something to eat or drink, perhaps?" Her voice was sickeningly sweet…and obviously forced. A pained smile graced her lips. A layer of shiny sweet shimmered from her forehead even though it was just past daybreak. Even her uniform—a navy blazer with a matching skirt—was wrinkly in places, as if it were thrown on in haste.

Rachel scanned the trays of steamy cups of tea and coffee, plates of scones and muffins, and prepackaged peanuts and pecans. Her stomach was growling, but the tight knots that tangled through her insides would surely prevent her from keeping down anything she chose to eat. Deciding it best not to provoke the poor woman, Rachel politely declined her offer and resumed her staring and thinking.

Minute after minute passed. The chatty voices of other passengers filled the train car. The rumbling and sputtering of the engine and the screechy, ear-splitting whines of steel on steel added to the commotion and cacophony. The train was definitely no place for deep reflection. Nevertheless, Rachel proceeded to analyze and pick apart her decision to leave. The more she thought about it, the more she regretted it. She knew that regret was irrational. Dwelling on the past stopped one from facing the future. But Rachel was only human. She only had so much stamina for rationale.

Frantically Rachel sought to find a distraction. She had already tried reading from her mother's first book. That was a bust. It had taken every fiber of her being to get past the first sentence without bawling her eyes out. She must have read the first three words at least twenty times.

Her thumb absently stroked the lifeless photograph of her mother on the back cover. The picture teased and taunted her to no end; the likeness to Rachel was remarkably similar. Her eyes went glassy involuntarily.

But before a tear could roll down her cheek, a distraction presented itself when a tiny voice disrupted her mental debates and daydreams. "A fan of the Temperance Brennan novels, I see?"

Rachel looked up to find a woman staring at her carefully with grayish, overcast eyes. Rachel had noticed her when she first took her seat—she was the lady sitting parallel to her. The woman was terribly tiny; her build was remarkably similar to that of a ten-year-old girl. Her skin was wrinkled and worn with age, and the creases around her mouth signaled that she had spent a great deal of time smiling. A mass of reddish curls sprung from her head. Some barrettes clipped back a few of them. A rather large handbag was slung carelessly over her right shoulder, and a few of the contents were sticking from the flaps.

Smiling slightly, Rachel replied, "Oh, yes. I just started them, actually."

"I wouldn't want to spoil your surprises then." She paused to open one of the flaps from her bag. With a grunt of satisfaction, she retrieved a copy of the latest novel in the series and waved it in her hand. "I'm halfway through it. Can't get enough of them, it would seem."

"Really?" Rachel was flattered. I guess Mom really is famous.

"Oh yes!" the woman insisted. "Doctor Brennan really is something! So vivid…Makes me look at my life differently, I guess." She paused for a moment. With a sigh, she stuck out her hand purposefully. "Where are my manners? My name is Tiffany Lewis. It's a pleasure."

Out of courtesy, Rachel extended her own hand and shook Tiffany's slowly. "I'm—Lynn…Smith." Rachel smiled to herself; she had succeeded in keeping her identity a secret.

"Good to meet you. Headed to D.C.?" Tiffany asked before lifting the rim of her teacup to her thin lips.

Rachel nodded. "To visit family. You?"

"It's my brother, actually. He's an aspiring politician just out of college. The kid's got gumption, I'll give him that, but sometimes he doesn't think things through. He headed down here a month ago without any plan to speak of. Now I'm here to clean up his mess." Tiffany smiled broadly as she tossed a red curl off her shoulder. "Not that I mind, of course. I just wish he was more careful."

"That's nice."

Smooth, real smooth, Rach. C'mon, focus! You've got a brain. Now use it, damn it! You know full well that there are better adjectives in the dictionary than the word nice, she chastised herself.

Tiffany grinned knowingly and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Ah…Nerves, I see?" At the bemused expression plastered to Rachel's face, she elaborated and softened her voice a notch. "What's on your mind, dear? I've dealt with three kids—three girls, no less. Lay it on me. Can't be worse than the things I've seen."

Rachel was hesitant. Her brows ruffled in deep confusion, and she fiddled with her fingers nervously. This woman was a complete stranger. But it was so tempting…Could she divulge her issues, her problems, her fears? Was it safe to spill her life story with this Tiffany woman? Likely not. After a few more moments of mulling things over, Rachel decided to—adjust—her story. It wouldn't be wise to tell her every last detail, but would it hurt to tell her some?

"I grew up in the suburbs of Philly," Rachel began tentatively. At the woman's nod of encouragement, she continued. "I never really saw my parents that much. All I ever had were some meager photographs and bits and pieces of information."

That wasn't an outright lie. It was all truth. Rachel did grow up in the suburbs of Philly. Rachel hadn't seen her parents much. All she had was a pile of photographs and biographies courtesy of the Internet. She wasn't lying. She was omitting.

"I wanted—more, you know? The feeling that I was missing something, something big, something huge, was awfully strong…and intoxicating. Then I, well, I acted on an impulse. I'm not sure if that was wise." She paused to chuckle. "Heck, I know it wasn't wise, but at the time, I didn't care. And I still don't."

Tiffany nodded understandingly. "Sometimes, dear, we have to look at the bigger picture. Think of it like this: you may regret this decision of yours right now, but fast-forward a bit. Will you regret it then? Do you feel like what you did was for the best? Sure, at the moment, it may have seemed…impulsive, impetuous, imperfect, but do you believe that the consequences of your actions, whether they be good or bad, will have a positive or negative effect on your life?"

Rachel looked the woman straight in the eye. Compassion…Concern…Sympathy. The words ran through Rachel's mind. That's what she saw. The woman seemed wholly compassionate. She appeared to be concerned for Rachel's wellbeing. Tiffany did sympathize. Never had Rachel seen such a thing in all her years. Here she was, a complete stranger, handing out the best advice Rachel had ever heard.

For a few minutes, she contemplated the angle of Tiffany's thinking. It made perfect sense. At thirteen, running off to Washington D.C. without parental consent was way out of line, not to mention life threatening. But what about a year from now? Wouldn't she be happy to have her real parents at her side? Though Rachel resented that she was so low as to resort to the use of psychology, she had to admit it was working. It really was.

"Once you've hit rock bottom, all that's left is up, Lynn," Tiffany reminded gently.

A long pause followed.

"Positive then, I guess. This is good for me. Thank you, Tiffany. For that. Whatever the heck it was."

Tiffany's eyes twinkled. "You're very welcome, my dear. Very welcome."

The rain was coming down hard and fast. The streets were shiny with smooth, slippery droplets. The clouds gathered in packs, threatening to dump more and more buckets of water down on the streets of Washington D.C. The pitter patter-ing of the drops fell in a rhythmic pattern. Umbrellas hooded the sidewalks in a smorgasbord of colors, bringing life to the dull streets.

The stale stench of tobacco lingered in the cab. Crusted bubblegum stuck to the felt of the ceiling. Mud and coffee stained the coarse carpeting. A few wrinkled magazines stuck from the pouches of the front seats. The windows had frosted over with a thin, moist layer of silver. Thumbprints rubbed to the filthy glass revived themselves.

"You said Jeffersonian, Miss?" the cab driver called from the opening in the plastic divider. His breath was foul, and his voice was hoarse. The man wore a lopsided baseball cap on his head. A few gray wisps stuck from the elastic band at the bottom. His reddish t-shirt clung to his rounded belly.

"Yes, please," Rachel replied weakly, her voice shaking and her hands trembling.

To say she was nervous would be an understatement of immense proportions. Her heart rattled against her ribs. She tried to focus on the kind words of Tiffany. Once you've hit rock bottom, all that's left is up…Once you've hit rock bottom, all that's left is up…But what if I haven't hit rock bottom? What if there's still a little ways down to go?

"The weather's been pretty crappy now a day. I wouldn't pay it any mid, though. S'posed to clear up by ta'morrow."

Rachel nodded mutely. She caught the man's gruff, gray eyes from the rearview mirror. They seemed tired, drained…Just like me, she thought ruefully.

The remainder of the ride was spent in an awkward silence. What would have been a ten minute drive lasted a good half hour. The traffic was bumper to bumper, and the rain only made it worse.

Out of boredom, Rachel pressed her fingers to the cool glass of the window, staring at her own grim reflection. Her eyes were sunken and drawn, both obvious signs of stress. The fire that kept the sapphire irises glowing had been extinguished. Her face has paled with exhaustion and worry. And as mush as it pained her to admit, she knew she was hanging from a thin string; the only thing that was keeping her going was hope, and maybe it wasn't even hope—maybe it was just false hope.

The taxi jerked to an abrupt stop. "Ten dollars and twenty two cents, Miss," the man called.

Rachel placed an old, withered ten dollar bill and five ones into the man's leathery outstretched hand, muttering a barely coherent thank you under her breath. She swung the heavy door open. With a quick flick, the black umbrella she had purchased after exiting the train terminal was at ready. Rachel slammed the door shut and made her way through the masses of people. She soon found that this was no easy feat; the crowds only grew denser as she wormed her way closer to the museum entrance.

Praise be for umbrellas, she thought wryly. I'll have to Google the genius who came up with the bright idea once I get out of this mess. Then the lump in her throat thickened. If I ever get out, that is…

Once safely inside the museum doors, she closed the umbrella and shook off the excess water in a hurry, leaving a slippery puddle on the tiled floor. The security gates were intimidating to say the least. Heavy metal machines stood proudly in a row like toy soldiers. A few heavy set men dressed in black garnished with hints of silver perused the area, swinging bunches of keys on only one of their fingers with skill.

With a heavy heart, she remembered she carried a highly suspicious leather suitcase between her numb fingers. Obviously she had nothing to hide, but the sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach told her the security guards wouldn't be so quick to understand.

"Your bag, Ma'am?"

Rachel frowned at the sight of a rather ugly man gesturing to the luggage she clutched tightly in her hand. Simply unwilling to release her viselike grip on the worn strap, she struggled to come up with a believable tale. "The hotel, you see, won't let me check in till—" she paused to steal a glance at the clock on the other side of the room, "—eleven o'clock, and it's only a bit after nine. I had no place for my belongings, you understand, so I had no choice but to take the whole kit and caboodle along with me."

The man raised his brows doubtfully. "Standard procedure, Ma'am. It just needs to go through the metal detector, is all." With his muscular arms, he pried the bag from Rachel's reluctant hands and sent it through the conveyer belt. After pressing a few select buttons, he grunted and said, "All yours, Ma'am."

She shuffled her way through one of the metal detectors lined up in rows. After a nimble nod of the head, she welcomed the bag back in her arms eagerly. The museum was her oyster now, free for the taking.

A kiosk in the center of the plaza caught her attention. There were several dusty, plastic shelves stuffed with maps. Her heels echoed against the tiles. She extended her shaky fingers to retrieve one of the maps. She quickly undid the shiny folds and sighed when her suspicions were confirmed. An area in the north wing of the museum was colored in red ink. In bold, black lettering, it read, "JEFFERSONIAN INSTITUTE MEDICO-LEGAL LAB; RESTRICTED AREA; PRIVELEDGED ACCESS ONLY."

Before she tackled that hurdle, Rachel decided to make her way to the nearest ladies room. There were a few more loose ends she had to tie before taking the plunge and meeting her mother. After securely locking herself in the handicap stall, she unzipped her suitcase and pulled out a fresh outfit. If she showed up in her mother's office wearing her dress suit, she'd hardly pass as a thirteen-year-old girl, much less her daughter. Once satisfied with her denim skirt and pink sweater, she brought a washcloth to one of the sinks. The makeup would have to go, too.

The hair was different project altogether. She did her best to unpin her curls; she even went through the trouble to dampen them. With her brush, she tied the auburn locks back in a loose ponytail. A few stray tendrils hung limply on her neck.

Much better, she congratulated herself. Now…To find Angela.

After much thoughtful consideration, Rachel thought it best to find Angela before Temperance or Seeley. She'd be willing to bet that Angela, as her mother's best friend, would arm Rachel with facts, a luxury she sorely lacked. The pictures and the kindly description in the interview portrayed Angela to be a dependable, welcoming woman, not one to resent Rachel's burning curiosity.

With a deep breath, Rachel barreled her way out of the restroom, determined to find her way to the north wing. In not ten minutes, she had passed through the maze of corridors that plagued the Jeffersonian.

A set of transparent doors was the only thing keeping Rachel from her mother. Etched in white, the door read, "Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Lab, Front Lobby." At a closer look, a rather disagreeable woman sat at a desk in the oval shaped room.

Her heart pounded. Her palms were clammy. Her steps were hesitant. Rachel numbly pushed the door open. It's now or never, she decided. With that thought in mind, she made her way to the front desk to make her presence known.