37. Complete
Booth entered the kitchen, surprised to find a stack of paper sitting on the counter.
Bones Never Lie. By Temperance Brennan.
Unable to hold back his curiosity, Booth lifted the first page of the manuscript, reading the dedication his wife had written.
This book is dedicated to my friend, Lance Sweets. My life means more because I knew you.
He sighed shakily, biting down the emotions that his wife's words had evoked. Somehow, the only thing he managed to pick up on was the use of the past tense. Because I knew you. She'd repeated the final words of Sweets' book dedication to them, but had been forced to alter them."
The sting of Sweets' death was still fresh, it was approaching the first anniversary and he still expected to see the psychologist everywhere he went. He'd opened the manuscript expecting to see her words to him, and to Christine, to their friends, or her father. He hadn't in the slightest expected his wife, the woman who could usually bite back her emotions in public, to honour their dead friend.
She'd written the whole book for him, for Sweets.
"Booth, I was able to complete the manuscript for my book yesterday, so— Booth, what's wrong?"
He looked up, smiling as she stood in front of him, dressed in plaid shorts, a tank top that was stretched over her baby bump and one of his shirts, unbuttoned and hanging loosely around her frame.
"Nothing, Bones. You erm— you dedicated your book to Sweets."
"I know. I spent a lot of nights writing while you were in prison, and Sweets was there for me, and for Christine, during that time, so I just— I miss him, Booth."
"I know, Bones, me too."