It was two days after the Howard Epps catastrophe, and with the excess use of my shampoo, the blonde hair dye was finally coming out. I'm sorry, I just can't do it anymore. The other day, I'd used the additional absence to sleep all day. I'd intended to sleep through the night, too, waking up to an alarm only once at around seven to get a bite to eat (salty crackers. I love salt) so I wasn't starving in the morning. But I ended up waking several hours before I needed to, due to a nightmare about the psychopathic criminal.

That day, I went to the bar and worked from eight in the morning to eleven at night before swinging by Andy's office and giving him notice of my indefinite absence from work. To prove that I had legitimate reason, I showed him the court summons, which had a signature and the judicial seal. In turn, he gave me a paycheck to see me through. Usually I'd have gotten my salary at the end of last week, marking the first of the month, but then I'd been moonlighting, and Amy had come by to pick me up before the shift ended. To make up for the delay, I had fifty extra dollars to cash in addition to my normal five hundred for working at the bar.

Yes, for a bar in the bad part of the city, that's not actually too bad for a month. But for me, it's not quite enough to live healthily and happily. Since the crime rate is so high and the flats are about one fifth of a star, the rent each month is only about one fifty, compared to some housing districts. But then around another hundred goes to utilities, and another hundred is put into my insurance in case I end up in a hospital sometime and Booth doesn't somehow convince Cullen that the FBI should pay for it. Of the remaining, fifty is put into my emergency savings and the other hundred goes into buying from the cheap convenience store a few blocks away. It's a system that works for me, but most kids shouldn't be worrying about all of their life expenses.

Now, today, I have on some denim jeans and trainers, as per usual, and for the court specifically I'm wearing a nice blouse. Not that they no, considering I'm wearing my characteristic sweatshirt over it. Hey, just because it's a court, doesn't mean you have to dress professionally. It's just an overall suggestion. The only thing you really have to do is speak the truth (or lies that cannot be proven to be false), take an oath that you may or may not actually intend to honor, defend yourself within reason, and avoid being picked up by the bailiffs. Today was just a preliminary hearing of the people testifying and swearing in, just to get people ready for the real trial, which goes down tomorrow. After this, I'm going to the FBI headquarters, apparently, if the note my state-appointed lawyer gave me is any indicator. It was from, you guessed it; Special Agent Seeley Booth. It didn't give any reason or explanation, just gave me the very basics of the date, his office, and an ASAP notice.

I hope he's got another reason than another consulting job. I'm not being paid and I'm becoming friends with them. The people at the Jeffersonian are starting to mean something to me, and I know that the more I let myself be around them, the more I'll hurt later when I don't get to see them again. Although I'm probably not strong enough to say "no" to another offer, I know it's unfair for me to keep going like this.

As the slow court introduction passed by, I watched every clock available. I've seen turtles go more quickly than the seconds, and each minute seemed to be coming reluctantly. Before I knew it, an hour had passed from when I'd come into the court, been positively identified, fingerprinted, sworn in, and then been given time to confer with my appointed lawyer. Although the lawyer had seemed haughty at first, she stopped being an idiot when she realized that I'm not ignorant to the laws and my own defense. While there was no way that I was going to be charged with firsthand murder, the trial was using my testimony to clear me of suspicion of accessory.

Finally, the preliminary court session was adjourned. I couldn't get out of there fast enough! The judge let me leave and as soon as I heard the words, I was out of there. Goodbye, bailiffs and gavels, hello achingly-familiar FBI building. I took a taxi to the headquarters and then ran up the stairs. Holding up my note from Booth, the security made me sign in as a visitor and then let me through, having seen me before. They refreshed my memory on what floor Booth's office was on and let me on my way.

I knocked on the door confidently. I've been here enough, and besides, if Booth tells me to come over, then I have every right to be here. The door opened almost immediately and the office was less organized than it had been when I came here with Amy Morton. My greeter, Booth, had his black coat only half-on, only one of his arms through the sleeve. I raised an eyebrow and made a show of looking around the room. "Office fraternization?" I teased with a slight smirk to show that I wasn't serious. "Damn. I never would have thought."

Booth gave me one of those barely-patient looks of fake amusement. "Remind me to laugh later. Did court go well?"

"You mean, "was court totally and absolutely boring and nothing of any interest at all happened?" Yes, yes, that's exactly how court went." I answered with a roll of my eyes. "I think my lawyer thinks I'm an idiot. Why am I here?"

"You walked through the doors," Booth replied with a sly grin.

I gave him an unamused expression and followed him as he started walking through the department, away from his office. "Remind me to laugh later," I retorted, tossing his own words back. "What was that note about? I couldn't think of anything good."

"It's very like you to think of everything bad, you know?" He told me dutifully while we came to a stop beside the elevators. He pressed the button to go down and it lit up.

"Yes, I do know. I am me, after all. Hey, wait, are you dodging around the question?"

He clicked his tongue and snapped his fingers at me as the elevator dinged, trying to interrupt us and say that the doors were about to open. "Ten out of ten!"

"Usually when people are caught stalling, they don't praise the other person," I told him with dry amusement.

Booth's behavior is a puzzle to me. Like, a large jigsaw puzzle, except some of the pieces are missing. This is probably because he has many different aspects to his personality, and I don't know everything. He was a sniper in the army, yet now he works for the homicide department of the federal bureau. He has a child and yet he barely talks about him – at least, not when I've been around him. He likes to be a no-nonsense tough guy, but he's sensitive to other people. He has a brother and he never talks about his family. I can't tell why he's nice to me; when we met, he tolerated me because of his job, but he went beyond making sure I was physically unhurt. I'm a rude and unruly child trying to do an adult's role, and he invites me to do that, when he likes to keep things in order. I feel like I'm missing something, and I can't quite decide what I think of him.

"I've got an early Easter present for you!" Booth announced with a big, charismatic smile as he stepped backwards into the elevator. Realizing that he'd probably want to continue the conversation, but that he also probably had to be somewhere, I stepped in after him, going to lean against the wall while he pressed the button for the ground floor.

"I don't really like surprises," I told him honestly. They're… well, a surprise.

"Holly, what kind of kid are you?" Booth complained, only half serious. "What kid doesn't like surprises and presents?"

"The Holly Kirkland type, apparently. Well, I have a feeling you're going to tell me about what it is, whether or not I'm excited."

Booth grinned again. "Of course. Well, there's a case file in the car for you to look over. The bar would be faxed excuses. The victim is Maggie Schilling. She was found in a sealed refrigerator, and the squints think she was in there for somewhere near a year. There was a lot of hydromorphone in her system, according to the lab's toxin results. Bones is meeting us at the parents' house."

I paused before I said anything. "You're taking me on another case," I stated, hoping that my voice didn't give away my excitement and apprehension. Like I'd predicted, I couldn't make my stupid mouth say the word "no."

"Bingo!" Booth didn't see my anxiety. That's what I get for being either a great actress or for being so excited and eager to work past cases. "And this time, you're on with the FBI, not just the Jeffersonian."

"Cullen agreed to it?" I asked, unable to help my surprise. The haughty director of the FBI had seemed to like my spunk when we met, but when I made things a bit difficult for him, he seemed to gain an instant dislike for me. I couldn't comprehend that he wanted to let me hang around the federal bureau.

"Well," Booth started with a slight wince as the elevator doors opened. He exited and I followed, feeling remarkably like a dog following its master. "He made me promise not to give you a gun." Figures. "But he's recognized that you've assisted several federal cases before. So now it's fine for you to be an FBI consultant… as long as you don't shoot an unarmed man again."

"May I remind you that he was trying to light Dr. Brennan and I on fire? I think that's a pretty damn good excuse for shooting him. And it wasn't even fatal!"

Booth held up his arms. "Hey, I never said anything! Cullen just doesn't want to admit that the kid he yelled at is a crime-solver in the making."

I looked down at the ground. Booth didn't seem to think it was weird, because I suppose it's not that unusual for going down a flight of stairs. We were passing the set of stairs leading to the sidewalk outside. The air whipped at my hair and I briefly considered tying it back before deciding that I'd be out of the wind soon enough. I could see Booth's SUV just parked a little way down the block. "I'm not a crime solver," I corrected him. "I'm a temporary consultant. I'm not getting paid, so I can't just turn that into my career."

Booth reached out like he was going to catch my arm and pull me up to beside him instead of trailing behind, but then he remembered that I don't like to be touched. I frowned. I don't feel like it's fair for him to have to watch his normal actions all of the time just because of me, when he's been so considerate of me.

While Booth went around the car to get in, I sighed, casting a reluctant glance back at the FBI building. What have I done? Either I did something wrong or I did several things very, very right in order to get myself in a position where the best scientists in the world and an FBI Special Agent keep inviting me to work with them. How did I get myself roped into this, again?

Maggie Schilling's case had been in a file in the car that Booth let me go through. It held toxin scan results, reports, paperwork, basic information, photocopies of x-rays where bone damage had been evident, the works, with an additional page of Brennan's notes. Maggie had a thyroid condition which would have resulting in her bones being brittle, which could help to explain the fractures in her wrists. Brennan thought that she had been bound and that she'd fought back, which is an acceptable scenario.

She'd had several drug issues and wealthy parents, which explained how she managed to afford so many of the street drugs. When her skeleton along with liquefied tissue and organs had been discovered in a sealed, rusting fridge, Booth had had it sent straight to the Jeffersonian, where they had already gone through the motions. Hodgins took particulates and insect activity to place time of death at somewhere around eleven months ago. Toxin specialists at the Jeffersonian had run tests and determined that, at the time of her death, Maggie had been pumped full of hydromorphone, more commonly known as hospital heroin. Although it had been a lethal amount, that wasn't necessarily the cause of death, although no one had found anything suggesting otherwise.

Brennan's car was parked outside of the Schillings' house already when Booth and I got there. They lived off on their own; not too far from the city, but at the same time without close neighbors. A large, multi-story house was painted with complementary colors of pale tans and light browns, with dark red and orange furniture along with a leather La-Z-Boy chair and a dark black shaggy rug. The light fixture in the drawing room was a crystal chandelier which I couldn't stop taking glances at. It's just so cool-looking.

Booth and I were drinking from narrow glasses of lemonade which had been offered by Maggie's mother, while Brennan was drinking from a bottle of Ice Mountain water. These hosts were much more considerate than April Wright's parents had been. We were all seated, with Brennan and I on a leather orange sofa while Booth was comfortable in a velvet armchair. The Schillings were sitting close to each other on a loveseat across from us, with a rectangular glass coffee table in the middle.

"I know it sounds terrible, but I hoped that she had just run away." Mrs. Schillings looked heartbroken, but at least she wasn't denying what we'd told her. Her hair was tied up in a tight bun and she had a long silver necklace around her neck. "That way, I could believe she was still alive."

"She started turning against us in high school," Mr. Schillings explained. His voice was slightly croaky but he was masking his grief well. His wire-rimmed reading glasses were slightly cloudy, the only sign that he was tearing up. "Did a lot of drugs. We tried to help her, and we sent her to rehab, therapy…"

"Kids have a lot to contend with these days," Booth said calmingly.

"We didn't help her. Not really," Mrs. Schilling dabbed at her eyes with a soft white handkerchief. "We had nannies to raise her because we were so busy, and we sent her to shrinks when she had problems instead of talking to her."

"You shouldn't blame yourselves, Mr. and Mrs. Schilling," I said, in what I hope is a placating tone.

Brennan tipped her head and started to speak. I closed my eyes. I totally respect her, but sometimes when she says facts, she comes across as aloof. "Environment plays a huge role in development," she pointed out.

The room fell uncomfortably silent for a few seconds. If we were alone, I'd have leaned forward and hit my head on the coffee table.

Booth cleared his throat suddenly, and this seemed to break the tense quiet. Brennan spoke again and this time it wasn't to state a fact that could be taken the wrong way. "I'd like some pictures of Maggie so I can compare them with her remains. Pictures of her dancing would be most helpful… or swimming."

Mrs. Schilling reached out with shaky hands to a thick, black book down on the coffee table and opened it to several pictures of herself, her husband, and who I guess is Maggie. It must be a scrapbook or a photo album. "How do you know she danced and swam?"

Before Brennan could reply, I sent her a pleading look. Brenna paused for a moment and rethought her words before softly settling on, "Some things can't be erased from the body."

I settled backwards, happy with Brennan's tactful words. "I apologize for this, but we need to ask you about your daughter's drug issues," I said with the most professional air I could manage. "Do you know what she was using?"

Mr. Schilling looked down, not particularly thrilled about the question, but he gave a half-shrug. "Alcohol, ecstasy, marijuana."

"What about the drug hydromorphone?" I asked. If Maggie hadn't used hydromorphone before, then that may be a clue of finding her murderers. "It's a narcotic commonly referred to as hospital heroin."

Mrs. Schilling shook her head slowly. "It doesn't sound familiar."

"She had a thyroid condition," Brennan tried. "Was anything prescribed for that?"

Mr. Schilling was clearly disappointed in himself that he didn't know. "Her endocrinologist might know," he muttered.

Mrs. Schilling slowly pulled another photo from the album, this one of Maggie wearing a dance outfit with her hands carefully in front of her. Her legs were completely straight and her torso was bent, like she had been in the middle of a bow from the end of a recital. "We have to find who did this to Maggie. We have to do this for her."

Personally, I agree.

Maggie's endocrinologist was pretty young. His dark hair and tall stature made him seem both professional and welcoming when coupled with the cream color of the office walls. He had a desk with a black and white lettered nameplate reading "Nicholas Barragan, M.D.". Several books were on his shelves and one lay open on his desk when he greeted our party of three and welcomed us inside while he explained to us about Maggie's prescriptions. "Maggie's condition didn't respond to medication. I was trying to get her to agree to surgery when she disappeared."

"What types of medication are we talking about?" Brennan asked, her mouth moving while her eyes roamed the office.

Barragan thought for a minute, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. Maggie last saw him almost a year ago, anyway, and he's bound to have more than one patient at any time. "Furosemide, pamidronate… I also tried various calcitonins," Barragan finally answered upon remembering.

"What about hydromorphone?" I questioned.

Barragan shook his head quickly. "There are no pain issues associated with hyperparathyroidism, but I knew Maggie had a drug problem. She was definitely interested in getting some opiates from me. She bribed my office manager for samples."

Booth raised his eyebrows, wearing his "a-ha we've got a lead" expression. "I'm going to need your office manager's home address."

"Ex-office manager," Barragan corrected. "She's going to be what you call a… disgruntled employee."

The ex-office manager's name is Mary Costello. She and her husband Scott live in a small home but in a nice part of town. There's only two floors; ground and basement. They let us in willingly enough, and invited us to make ourselves at home. Brennan accepted a seat in a chair across from Mary and Scott's couch, but when I saw that Booth didn't feel like sitting, I didn't either. Mary and Scott seemed kind enough, but appearances are deceiving, and something was unsettling Booth.

Mary has dark blue eyes and curly, natural blonde hair that fell a few inches past her shoulders, while Scott's hair was dark brown and kept short. There were a pair of men's reading glasses on the little stand by the couch. "I didn't give Maggie those samples," Mary said insistently but earnestly. "She boosted them herself. That man just blamed me so he'd have an excuse to fire me."

"Why did he fire you?" I asked sharply, before realizing that I was coming across as mean again. Booth and I were leaning against opposite sides of the frame of wall leading from the living room to the kitchen, where the marble countertop sparkled and the soft greys and light blues stood out from the solid, sleek black of their new fridge. Oh, hey, they have a new refrigerator. Good for them, it looks like one of the expensive ones.

… Wait a minute. They have a new refrigerator.

Maggie Schilling was found in a refrigerator.

Oh.

"Because he's a horn dog," Mary answered my question with a little smirk. I crossed my arms deliberately. "I tried to keep things professional. You know what I mean?"

"Dr. Barragan said that you were closer to Maggie Schilling than any other patient," Brennan continued, while I looked over to Booth repeatedly, hoping that one of these times he would meet my eyes and I could subtly nod to the fridge.

Mary scoffed lightly. "Did you meet her parents?"

"Yes," Brennan answered truthfully.

Mary exhaled quickly and responded, "Then you know the poor girl was pretty much on her own. We took her in." Okay, I'll admit that that seems nice of them, but… you know, I'm still not too sure I trust them.

"He said that you went out together. That you took her to clubs," Brennan prodded further while I finally made eye contact with the special agent. I tipped my head toward the fridge. He looked at it for a few seconds before coming to the same realization I had and he beckoned me with him over to the front of it, leaving Brennan to lead the questioning.

"We just felt sorry for her, you know?" Scott said with wide eyes and a low shrug. "She was lonely so we showed her a good time."

I stood casually in front of the fridge while Booth leaned around to the side and looked behind it. When he backed out, Mary had picked up the conversation while I braced my heels into the carpet and tried to force myself backwards. The fridge slid slowly, but the important thing is that it was moving.

"One weekend, we took her on a road trip," Mary was saying.

"Yeah, the three of us ended up in Atlantic City. Totally crazy-" Scott interrupted.

Brennan frowned very slightly and readjusted herself, not seeming to notice that Booth and I were doing our best to push the fridge back closer to the wall without it being obvious. "Atlantic City doesn't seem an appropriate-"

"It's not like we planned it," Mary said at the same time. When I shoved as far back as I could and the fridge stopped giving in to me, I stepped to the side and looked down by the ground. There were rust-colors scrape marks on the tile floor of the kitchen, where an old refrigerator had been. The flaky trail was hard to miss. I looked up and Booth and I exchanged a look and he nodded. It's almost scary how we seem to think along the same tracks when it comes to discovering evidence and guilt. "Pills, vodka, and weed," Mary laughed.

"Mary wanted Maggie to go to meetings. You know, Alcoholics Anonymous, like that," Scott added, wrapping his arm around Mary's shoulders and pulling her closer to him.

"Really, that's very kind of you," I told them with absolutely no emotion in my voice, before bouncily changing the topic. "Now let's talk about your new refrigerator, yeah? It's always a great line of conversation."

Mary scoffed, but I detected the slight movement she made to adjust her position so she was facing me more. "Why?"

Booth shoved his fists into his pockets and looked from the scrapes on the tile to the Costellos. "Mainly, I'd like to know what happened to your old one."

"Always a lovely tale," I agreed, crossing my arms and leaning against the countertop by the sink. I smirked. "So what about it, Mary? What was wrong with the last one?" I waited a minute before adding, "Was it a bit too full of protein for your liking?" Mary's expression changed to nervousness and I grinned at her, grimly triumphant. If that wasn't a sign of guilt, I'm not sure what is.

At first, the FBI had come in with a warrant and things had been sort of calm, aside from Mary's anxious tapping and Scott's wary glances around. But then they'd found a lot of things in the basement and their bedroom (you know… those types of things.) and they'd had to bring in evidence boxes. I directed an agent to the marks on the floor and while she took measurements and pictures to compare to the fridge Maggie had been found in, I was left to my own devices, no longer needed nor wanted around. I went back to stand with Brennan and Booth in the living room.

Booth nodded at his phone and closed it, ending his call. "The fridge we found Maggie in is a match with the marks on the Costellos' floor," he informed us.

I looked as the search party carried several evidence bags around. One of them had an entire, loosely-packed small cardboard moving box. I scowled and looked away from the chains I saw in one of the clear bags. "The Costellos are sadomasochistic fetishists," I stated, then gave Booth a sideways glance before explaining. "They enjoy inflicting and feeling pain in their bedrooms."

"Yeah," Booth said, shoving his hands in his pockets again. "I knew what that meant." Somehow I highly doubt that, although maybe it's just me. "They turned the basement into a fun room."

"Seeking sexual gratification through the manipulation of power," Brennan elaborated, reaching into the box that the search officer was carrying. He stopped so that he could get whatever she took when she was done with it. Brennan held up the collar with spikes and gave it a weird look, like she couldn't decide how she felt about it. She lowered it back into the box and the agent continued on his way. "Probably the oldest of fetishes; master-slave. It's all about dominance."

"Well, this only comes up when the bloom comes off the rose, if you know what I mean," Booth said uncomfortably.

"I don't know what you mean," Brennan predictably replied.

I swear Booth's face turned red. "You know, when the regular stuff –" he stopped and then tried to start again. "When it gets old, you need to spice it up, it's over. When sex is good, you don't need any help."

Brennan grinned. "That's for sure."

"Ew!" I shrieked, laughing at the same time. Booth and Brennan both smiled as I covered my ears. "Hey! Ew! I'm seventeen! For another eight months I'm a minor! Minors don't need to hear this! I don't need to hear this! Ever! Ew!" My birthday is in December. Technically, it's the twenty-seventh of the month, but I usually don't celebrate. Yay, I'm a year older, whatever. It was an inevitable achievement. If I ever am forced to participate in cake-and-ice cream celebrations by foster families, they make me celebrate a week or two early because of Christmas or Hanukkah.

"I was just saying that I myself feel no inclination toward either pain or dominance when it comes to sex," Brennan justified, although I could tell she was amused by my reaction.

This in mind, I dramatized it some more and kept my hands over my ears, squeaking like her words physically hurt me.

"Are you sure?" Booth asked her skeptically.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Brennan said, a little affronted by the insinuation that she wouldn't know her own preferences.

Booth whistled in disbelief. "Because you can be very bossy."

Brennan frowned and hit his arm lightly with a whip that the search team had put over the couch in an evidence bag. I shuddered and wrapped my arms around myself, looking away from the whip. I don't think Booth noticed. I just can't stand looking at whips; not since one was used on me. Oh, it took forever for those marks to heal, and they're some of the most prominent scars on my back. Did I mention it hurt? A lot?

Booth looked down at the little collection of evidence bags and lifted up a pair of handcuffs with a pink fuzzy slip over them. Scott smirked very slightly from where he was being held back on the other side of the room. "Look at him, huh? Whoo! All smiley," Booth taunted, swinging the handcuffs as best as he could while they're in a plastic bag. "I bet he just loves these things."

Brennan snatched the handcuffs away from Booth, no longer paying attention to his antics. Through the bag, she worked to open one of the cuffs. "These could explain the stress fractures," she explained. "Maggie's bones were brittle from the disease. Struggling would cause the cracks we saw."

"You okay, kid?" Was my greeting when Hodgins joined Zach and I on the exam platform.

When Mary and Scott were arrested, Booth went back to the FBI to interrogate them and I rode with Brennan back to the Jeffersonian. With Zach and the security guards supervising me, I was working up on the platform while Brennan had gone to meet Booth and someone else at the entrance to the building. I was going over the skeleton and trying to find another link to the Costellos from Maggie Schilling's remains.

I didn't look up to Hodgins. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be? Is there a prank that I'm not aware of?"

Hodgins snorted. "Oh, if there was a prank, you would know about it. No, I meant after the Epps thing." I swallowed and continued my examination resolutely. There were small stress fractures on the bones in Maggie's wrists, like Brennan had said, and the marks on the bones suggested the ligaments and tendons hadn't been used much before they'd decomposed. Maggie had been tied up for more than a few minutes before she was killed. "I heard you broke him," Hodgins urged.

"Why would you do that?" Zach set down the left tibia and looked up at me curiously.

Because he harassed someone I was willing to protect? Because he's ruined so many lives? Because he's a sick, twisted bastard who made me nauseous? Because I felt like he was zeroing in on me? "Because he touched me," I said simply, still slightly tense. That was the answer I felt most comfortable giving; it's no secret that being touched doesn't sit well with me. Ladjavardi got flipped, a Venezuelan official got beaten unconscious, et cetera. I don't think anyone will be mad at me for breaking the wrist of a murderer.

"And you're really okay with what happened?" Hodgins urged. I wanted to lash out with sharp words, but I knew that, although it would get him to leave me alone, I'd feel guilty about it later. He's just worried about the kid he has to supervise.

"No. I'm not okay, because several young women have been murdered, I played a psychopath's game and he won, and now he's not getting what he deserves. So I'm really not okay, but there's nothing anyone can do about it," I said shortly. I had a feeling that if I were a cartoon, steam would be coming out of my ears.

Hodgins looked at his clipboard for a moment before casually asking, "Are you planning on testifying as an expert witness?"

I raised my eyebrows. "I wasn't aware we would be involved in this case going to court."

Hodgins nodded, seeming proud of himself for knowing something I hadn't already figured out. "According to Brennan, Booth says the Costellos got a good lawyer and we have to testify to get them sent to jail."

I gave a half-shrug. "Then yeah, if I have to testify, I will. I'll be at the courthouse already, I might as well get another set of murderers in jail."

"Does anyone have a watch?"

I turned my head to look over the railing. Brennan was quickly approaching the platform, security pass in hand, with a man behind her. He looked a few years older than her, but there couldn't have been more than five to eight years of an age gap. He was admittedly handsome; tall, with short dark hair, and with the top button of his shirt undone. He had a black jacket over his shirt which let him pull it off without looking too unprofessional. He had been the person asking about a watch. Booth followed behind them.

After a cursory glance at both Zach and Hodgins's wrists, I shrugged at him with a polite half-smile. "Nope. Sorry. It was around one half an hour ago," I supplied. If he was with Brennan, he can't be that bad.

The man fixated his eyes on me for a couple of seconds before he murmured something to Brennan as she swiped her card and they stepped up. I didn't hear what he said, but I heard Brennan's response clearly. "She is seventeen, and yes, she has been extended multiple invitations to be here."

I cleared my throat and raised my eyebrows at the man. "With all due respect, I am also capable of coherent speech and comprehension, so if you have a question regarding me, you can ask me yourself."

Brennan stretched latex gloves over her hands and spoke quickly to Zach, like she was on a time restraint. "Pull up the frontal and lateral view of the victim's lower fibulas," she ordered. Then she glanced at the man and back to me. "Holly, this is Dr. Michael Styres."

"Holly Kirkland," I said courteously back to Michael, who gave a sheepish half-wave.

"You trained her well, Doc," Booth said friendlily to Michael, settling against the railing and getting comfortable.

"She's brilliant," Michael agreed, before lowering his voice so Brennan couldn't hear. "A little cocky, though."

Booth chuckled heartily. "Yeah. Tell me about it." While Zach showed Brennan an image of an x-ray on the computer monitor, Booth nodded at Brennan's back. "She's a pretty good partner, though. What you see is what you get. That's a rare quality. That's just between us, isn't it?" He asked quickly for confirmation, looking between Brennan and Michael, suddenly nervous.

"Dr. Brennan found marks on the medial malleoli, both left and right." Zach turned around to report to Michael and I.

"Legs were bound," I translated automatically for Booth. It's becoming a habit.

"Mirror erosion patterns are from the bones rubbing together over time," Zach added helpfully, hovering his hand over the large pictures of the x-rays in question.

Booth snickered. "If this were the result of sex games, then the legs, they wouldn't be bound together," he reasoned. I closed my eyes and faced the ground. "Well, come on! If you're looking for a little nookie, the last thing you'd tie together are the legs."

I pretended not to feel the heat in my cheeks. "I really hope you don't plan on including that in a professional court testimony."

Michael evenly studied the x-rays for a moment before he shrugged noncommittally and, looking Brennan straight into her eyes, said smoothly, "I'm not convinced. Brittle bones from her thyroid condition – the damage could have happened in a very short time."

Brennan swallowed, tensing, and then stalked over to the table, pointing at the joint of Maggie's elbow. "We also found evidence of inflammation on her right humorous and ilium."

"The bone abnormalities indicated pathosis from lying in one position for a long time," Zach elaborated, moving again to stand by Brennan's side.

"Long-term bondage is a reasonable explanation," I nodded. Although not absolutely, one hundred percent certain, it was the best explanation we had, and the facts backed it up.

Michael heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Decreased bone density could have caused the inflammation. This isn't definitive." He arrogantly smirked at Brennan and my dislike for him rose up another notch. I'd thought this was friendly competition; but this just seemed rude. Booth seemed equally annoyed. "I hear there's a nice little French place near here I'd like to try."

Brennan scowled and started snapping off her gloves. "I still have five minutes," she insisted stubbornly.