Every other time when Booth had come to get me (aside from when he first arrested me, obviously) it had been lighthearted and friendly. This time, however, that was not the case.

I stood behind the bar, prying open the top of a new, formerly unopened bottle of tequila at around six in the morning, while in front of me and on the bar top was a round, stainless steel tray with several champagne glasses sitting atop it. Two were already filled with brandy, another with Budweiser, and another two with tequila from another, now empty bottle. Helena stood on the other side of the counter, washing up the countertop with a warm and damp cloth while I talked, humoring her questions about how I've been spending my time.

I finally got the cap off and started pouring the tequila into the last glass while I answered her most recent question. "Actually, Agent Booth has jurisdiction over the cases. He has the FBI get warrants and search parties and forensic analysis groups. The Jeffersonian is technically a reputable source of consultants that the FBI utilizes, however their word is taken with confidence. The Jeffersonian can't do anything requiring legal aid without Agent Booth." I punctuated the end of my sentence with perfect timing as I set the tequila bottle on the bar, capped it, and lifted up the tray, balancing it with one hand under the bottom. I raised it up without shaking. This job is great for improving balance and coordination, if nothing else.

I carried the tray over to the correct table when Booth barged in the doors. The bell above dinged (lame security precaution so that the employees know if someone comes in) and he didn't waste any time before he marched over to me.

I held up the tray with one hand and started to pass out drinks with the other. "I'm sorry, sir," I said with a perfectly straight face as I set a glass of brandy in front of one of the men. "We do not accept strangers leering over our employees. If you do not calm down, I will be forced to punch you in the face."

The moment I had the last alcoholic drink out of my hands, Booth reached out and took the hood of my sweater, pulling me back towards the bar. I was slightly alarmed – he was being really out of character, and it scared me a little that he was tugging me around – but he hasn't ever given me a reason not to trust him, so I'm not going to freak out and actually punch him. Jesus, it was just a joke. I set the tray down on the countertop.

"Dude, what's wrong?" I asked nervously. "I mean, it was a joke. You don't have to manhandle me." He was quiet and just gave a glare to Helena, until the younger girl nodded, realizing Booth wanted some privacy and she moved to go back in the "employees only" section. "Booth, really, you're starting to freak me out," I said, my breathing actually picking up.

Booth seemed like he hadn't actually put too much thought into what he was doing. He looked surprised at himself and let go of my sweater. "Sorry, kid," he said shortly before getting straight to business. "Look, there's another case that's urgent, high priority. If you don't want in, that's fine, but if you do we have to leave now because, as I already said, it's urgent." He tapped his fingers on the countertop to accentuate his point.

"I'm in," I said immediately, although I was slightly bewildered. What could be more urgent that the Howard Epps case, when we were racing against a clock to be sure an innocent man wasn't going to be killed? (Well, of course, he didn't turn out innocent, but it's the thought that counts.) "What's up on this one? Is Cullen even going to be okay with me in a high-profile case? What kind of "urgent" is it?" I asked quickly, immediately trying to figure out where I'd stand with this one.

Booth seemed seriously bothered by this case, and he simply closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded at my questions. "Look... we're going to pick up Bones at her office, and then we'll go to the crime scene. After all you've done in work for the bureau, Cullen won't object. On this one we want all the help we can get. And as for the urgency…" He seemed like he was struggling to accept what this case was about, and didn't want to say it out loud. "You'll see when we get to the crime scene," he promised.

I waved at Helena and pointed at Booth before letting him pull me out, knowing Andy would get notified by the FBI again. As I slid into the front seat of his van, I sucked on the inside of my cheek with anxiety. What was so bad about this case that Booth didn't even want to say it?

I walked into Brennan's office. A woman and a man holding a camera were on the couch opposite from Brennan, who sat in her chair, but I didn't really think about it much, too concerned and worried about the new case. I'd run through many scenarios in my head and decided that if it was more high-priority than pro bono work on a death penalty case, then there was probably someone still alive, unaccounted for, and in danger.

I walked right into the office, knocking quickly on the door as I passed. "Dr. Brennan," I greeted swiftly, getting to business. I mean, if she's talking to people who had visitors' badges on their clothes, and Booth already called ahead to say he would pick her up, then clearly it can't be too important. "Booth's here. He picked me up on the way. We're going to the crime scene?"

The man with the camera turned slightly towards me and the woman looked from Brennan to I with a surprised expression. "Hello. Who's this?"

I blinked, unsure how to introduce myself, but luckily for me Brennan did it for me. "This is my coworker Holly. She's a consultant for the FBI and the Jeffersonian." I smiled slightly to myself. Aw! We're coworkers!

"It must be brilliant to work with the Jeffersonian and the FBI," the woman said, turning slightly and folding her hands in her lap as she spoke to me. Something about the way she spoke brought up the alarms in my head and then I realized the man with the camera was more than looking at me; he was watching me through the camera. "What's it like?"

"It's awesome," I said distantly, peering at the cameraman. "Excuse me, is that thing on? Are you filming?"

"We're live," the reporter said with a nod and a slight smile. She clearly thought I would think this was awesome, as well.

I glared, taken aback, and took a staggering step backwards. "Excuse you!" I yelled indignantly, glaring at the camera. "Turn that thing away from me! I didn't sign a media release contract, you are violating my constitutional rights! I should file a lawsuit! Agent Booth!" I waited a minute and looked out of the office window. Booth was shaking his head at me apologetically and mouthing the words, I'm not crashing a live interview.

The camera just kept watching me, although the cameraman seemed deterred by my threats, as he looked to the reporter in confusion. "Ugh!" I shouted, stomping my foot angrily, turning around, and running out of the office. So much for staying out of the media!

I had pouted and sulked the whole ride to the crime scene, still a bit indignant that Booth hadn't at least threatened the cameraman and the reporter for violating my rights (because, without my consent for public viewing of films of me, they were). But when we got there, I was pretty much over it, having thought it over and deciding that it was better for Booth that he hadn't made a spectacle, and at least now the media would know I wasn't afraid of having a bitch fit and storming away.

The moment I stepped out of the van, the interview was definitely not tagged with "priority" in my mind. I closed the van door and looked at the scene, unsettled. A sort of SUV or something was crashed into a tree just off of a local road. The hood of the car was decimated, crushed inwards by the tree. The van looked scorched. The paint was blackened and peeling, and little flakes were on the ground around the car. Sirens were still going off, and police were ordering people to take detours around the scene when they drove by. Yellow crime scene tape sectioned off the van, tree, and the short patch of road that they deemed important.

"So," I said, frowning at the car and rubbing my hands on the thighs of my jeans, trying to dissolve some unease. "Crashed and scorched or scorched and crashed?" I asked, looking at Booth inquisitively.

"State troopers called in the fire department to put out a burning car," Booth explained, pointing at the van with one hand, the other in his pocket. "They found a body in the driver's seat. License plate and V.I.N. are missing."

"So someone went to lengths to obscure the identity of the body," I concluded.

"Why is the FBI involved?" Brennan asked. She held out a pair of white latex gloves for me and I took them quickly so she could get her own on. She lifted her feet up high in the longer grass off of the road as we went towards the car.

Booth took a deep breath before answering this time and I looked up at him sharply. Whatever the answer was, it was likely why this qualified as a high-profile case. "One burned backpack… child-sized sneaker, plus the right side of her seat belt went missing. Sliced away." He said, all in one, hurried breath, looking away from the van as Brennan reached the driver's side window and looked inside. I could just barely see the charred cranium from my angle.

I softened my expression deliberately and looked at the obviously frustrated FBI agent sympathetically. "You think it's a kidnapping," I said, stating it so that he wouldn't have to elaborate for Brennan. I knew that any case involving endangered children would be difficult for him to keep calm with; I hadn't forgotten about the sweet four-year-old child I'd met who idolized his father as a hero.

Although I'd probably jump off of a cliff before I admitted it out loud, the past few days since I met Parker, I've been thinking about that photograph Booth had taken of Parker and I before I slept. It was calming and it helped me to forget about Epps and Edward Nelson and Randall Hall and the Costellos right before I had to dream. Admittedly, the nightmares come easier when I have that firsthand experience with killers to dwell on, but I don't think it makes my gig as a consultant any less worth it.

"I have to act that way," Booth said firmly, taking me out of my thoughts. "The first forty-eight hours after a child abduction are crucial. That's why you're both here. If you identify that victim, then you tell me what kid I'm looking for."

"Right," I said, steeling my thoughts from wandering back to Booth's son. I looked up and around at the crime scene team around us, thinking through what I knew of abduction cases and realizing why this was really so urgent.

Brennan declared the skeleton in the driver's seat a woman while I moved around the car and into view of most all of the officers here. I raised my hands above my head, waving my arms slightly and getting attention. "Hey, listen up!" I yelled, summoning as much authority as I could (and it probably wasn't much, considering the slight nerves I got when I had about half a dozen FBI forensics people watching me curiously), but not many people actually paid attention to me.

Booth wandered over to one of the forensics vans while I tried in vain to yell loud enough to get the attention of everyone at the admittedly spacey crime scene while they were busy talking through radios or conversing with each other or just plain absorbed in their work. After the fourth time I yelled and I didn't get the amount of attention I wanted, I sulked and kicked the dust. It's not like I'm doing it just to screw around; I'm trying to get a kid home safely!

Booth came back with his hands behind his back and held something out wordlessly. My eyes lit up brightly and I gasped, snatching the megaphone from him. Well, I guess it must be in the crime scene team's equipment in case they have a large crime scene to cover. I grinned, tapping it lightly and hearing the slight echo, and then held it up. "Everyone shut up and start listening!" I yelled experimentally, and a second later all eyes were on me and I swear I could have heard a pen drop. I looked over at Booth with a grin and he had his hands over his ears. Brennan looked up from over the hood of the car and she was glaring at Booth.

Glancing from one to the other, I tried to guess why they both seemed like some sort of natural disaster was coming.

Oh, right. I'm Holly Kirkland and Booth just gave me a megaphone. Well, that explains it.

"We need stills of the entire scene, first without flash so the entomological evidence isn't compromised!" I started. My mind raced as I thought about everything that could possibly help and I just continued. Booth wasn't exactly stopping me. "I want the license plate taken back to the FBI labs and I want a best attempt at reconstruction along with a chemical attempt to raise the letters! I want people going through missing persons reports, missing vehicle reports, school reports for any children not in attendance and unexcused today!"

I continued to list off anything and everything that I could think of for the next sixty seconds until I'd run out of ideas. To my surprise, the forensics teams seemed to actually be listening to me and several of them nodded when I said something that pertained to their field of expertise. When I finally finished, no one looked away for a minute until I raised the megaphone and said in a much quieter voice, "That is all."

I lowered the megaphone with a content smile and then said to myself with a satisfied nod, "I think I'll keep this with me while we're at this scene. It's useful."

"I really don't think that's necessary," Booth tried to dissuade me quickly.

"I think it is."

I kept the megaphone nearby me, but to my disappointment I didn't actually find a need to use it again. I helped Brennan with what I could and when it was time to leave, I gave the FBI team the address to the Jeffersonian while Brennan packed up her equipment and got in the car.

On my way to the van, Booth motioned me over to him by the driver's side. "Hey, are you alright?" He asked quietly, sounding genuinely concerned. "You don't usually take charge like that. I just thought I'd make sure that you didn't notice anything wrong."

My attitude dulled and I swallowed. I looked over to the burnt and crashed van for a moment before looking at Booth with a firmed resolve. "The chances are, there's a child who is scared and hurt somewhere," I whispered, and I reached up with one hand to push my hair out of my face. "I understand I don't have any real authority here, but I have to do what I can. If I'm overstepping any boundaries, then I'm sorry, it's really not my intention. But I just…" I trailed off for a moment before starting again. "My rights don't matter to me right now. My consequences don't matter so long as there's a chance of finding the child alive. Most children who die by the hand of their kidnappers are killed in the first twenty-four hours. Seventy-five percent of those children are killed in the first three hours, and of that group, forty-four percent are dead within the first sixty minutes."

My throat felt dry as I listed off the statistics, letting them roll off of my tongue like they were second nature. "You were right about me not wanting to be a barmaid. I wanted to help people who were hurt or in danger and I wanted to punish the people who caused it. I don't want this case to end with me standing over the dead body of another victim."

Booth nodded empathetically by the time I finished speaking. "You're a good kid, you know that?" He told me. I didn't answer, just shrugged. Whatever you say. I walked back around the car and pulled back the door, getting in the backseat while Booth put the car into gear.

"Shoe size four." Zach held the child's sneaker lower and set it in the steel evidence tray that the child's belongings had been placed in. He pointed to the charred remains of a little bag that looked like it had once been used as a school backpack. "That's a school bag, but the contents are burned beyond recognition."

Brennan stepped up the platform, snapping the latex gloves around her wrists and straightening them. "What about the human remains?"

"The victim was female, as you said at the crime scene," I said with a nod towards the exam table, holding my own gloved hands away from my body. "The skull shows Caucasoid as well as Mongoloid features." Mixed race.

"Also," Zach added, crossing from the table with the evidence to the side of the exam table, stepping up next to me. "Pre-auricular sulcus to the pelvis shows the victim gave birth five to eight years ago."

"The kidnapping victim could be her child," Brennan sighed, looking over the skeleton with a gaze of sadness.

There were a few seconds where no one said anything. Zach seemed like he hadn't wanted to think about the child and Brennan was probably even more sad about it, now that she'd said something about it out loud. I balled my hands into fists, biting at the inside of my cheek and looking over the smoky, mostly skeletal remains.

"The maxillary molars have been pulled and replaced with removable dentures," Zach started awkwardly, turning the focus of the investigation back to the skeleton. I took a few steps back so that he could pass me to the front of the exam table. He reached into the mouth (the cranium and mandible were being held together by blackened sinew) and gently pulled the dentures from around the teeth. "There's lots of gold."

"In parts of the Caucasus, when girls from wealthy families turn sixteen, they are given gold teeth to display their affluence," Brennan stated, very matter-of-fact in her note. She looked over the dentures for a moment before she carefully pried the mandible further away from the top row of teeth.

"I'll dissolve a bicuspid in nitric acid and do a chemical workup," Zach volunteered, setting the dentures in a smaller evidence tray and setting it off to the side, on the table with the microscope.

"There's something lodged in the larynx," Brennan noted, bent over the skull, her voice gaining the slightly distant tone it had when she was focusing on something else. She reached for some tweezers.

I made a face. "Part of her tongue?" I suggested. It was possible that the muscle tissue of her tongue hadn't been completely decimated by the fire, protected by her bones.

Brennan slowly pulled the flesh out of her throat with the tweezers, holding it up and bringing an evidence dish under it, setting it down in the dish and staring at it speculatively. "It's not fleshy enough for tongue. This is cartilage."

"Oh, lovely," I said sarcastically.

"I don't understand how this is lovely."

"It's sarcasm, Zach."

Dr. Goodman walked into the lab, but didn't come up onto the platform. He had his hands clasped in front of him and was leading a blonde woman behind him. I looked up as they entered and waved at Hodgins, who came in behind them a second later from the chemistry lab. "Hey, Hodgins, Dr. Goodman, and guest."

"Dr. Brennan, Mr. Addy, Dr. Hodgins, Miss Kirkland," Goodman nodded in kind acknowledgement. He stepped to the side and made a wide gesture to his friend. She was tall and blonde, with fair skin and European features. She wore a pencil-grey skirt and a business jacket over a white blouse that was buttoned up all the way and tucked into the waistline of her skirt. "This is Miss Pickering. She's performing a security review for the state department on everyone working on the Jeffersonian's cases." I am definitely not imagining the look he's giving me.

Hodgins gave that silly, lopsided grin that he usually wore before saying something paranoid. "One man's security review is another man's witch hunt," he said, swiping his security card and stepping up onto the platform.

Pickering gave Hodgins a weary and skeptical look, nodding her head once sharply and looking to Dr. Goodman. "That would be Dr. Jack Hodgins."

Goodman sighed. "It would be, yes."

"Aw, look at that, Hodgins!" I said with faux cheerfulness. It was impossible to actually enjoy myself with the fear of finding a child dead because of something he had nothing to do with – because his parents couldn't make smarter choices for him. "Your reputation precedes you!"

Hodgins tilted his head at her, snapping the latex gloves around his wrist and wincing only slightly when it hurt. Well, what were you expecting?! "You know us all, don't you, Miss Pickering?" I rolled my eyes only slightly at his conspiracy theorist mode. "Or is it "Agent" Pickering, from the National Security Agency?"

"I don't yet know you as well as I will, Dr. Hodgins," Pickering assured him with a clearly forced smile. Her smile evaporated as she noticed something and her expression changed to alarm. "Is something burning?"

I smiled only slightly and nodded to the side, at the smoked corpse. "Not anymore." I said with a shrug. "She's been pretty much extinguished by now." Pickering's attention snapped to me and she observed me critically, her eyes lingering on the gloves on my hands and the long-sleeved sweater.

"Miss Pickering will require a few minutes of everyone's time to perform a routine security review," Goodman explained seriously. "I expect everyone to be cooperative."

I raised my hand slightly. "I'll be cooperative so long as she doesn't insult me."

Hodgins crossed his arms and snorted derisively. "I'm not swearing any damn loyalty oath," he declared.

Goodman looked taken aback and fixed Hodgins with a cool look. "And civil!" He added, specifically for the entomologist.

Brennan put the top over the flesh from the victim's throat and held it out to Zach. "Send this to Dr. Chen in pathology. Ask him to identify it as soon as possible," she instructed quickly before bending over the bones again.

Goodman cleared his throat loudly. "Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes. Security check, civil," Brennan said, brushing it off and not paying too much attention. She looked up from the arm of the dead woman and to Hodgins. "Zach will grind a segment of the femur so you can perform trace element analysis." Hodgins nodded to show he'd heard.

"Didn't I see you on television this morning, Dr. Brennan?" Pickering asked without warning, cocking her head at Brennan quizzically.

Brennan fixed her with a puzzled stare. "How could I possibly know what you watched on television?" She looked behind Pickering at the opening doors of the Medico-Legal lab and I could practically see the thoughts of the security detail flying out the window. "Booth! I have to talk to you!"

"Yeah, it was definitely her," Pickering said to Goodman with a tense sigh.

"Hey," I interjected, slightly defensively on Brennan's behalf. "You don't have to sound so disappointed."

Pickering tilted her head at me, her eyes sharpening again as she became suddenly business-like. "What are your qualifications to work at the Jeffersonian? I have not been informed of the presence of a child."

I peeled the latex gloves from my hands and threw them in the waste basket at the side of the security system installment by the stairs. "I'm not a child," I stated coldly, irked. "I'm a consultant of the FBI and Dr. Brennan has requested my assistance on several cases. I'm seventeen and perfectly capable."

Pickering raised her eyebrows. "Then why did you run away from the cameras like they were going to attack?" She asked, clearly not convinced.

I waved to Goodman in exasperation, stepping down the stairs of the platform and going off to meet Brennan and Booth. "I don't like being on film," I answered. "If you really want proof that I'm allowed here, ask Dr. Goodman."

Behind my back, I heard Goodman quietly advise the woman, "You might want to work your way up to Dr. Brennan and Miss Kirkland."

Brennan and Booth walked up the stairs to the second level of the Medico-Legal lab and Brennan grazed her hand over the railing overlooking the platform while she walked. I followed behind them, looking down at Pickering curiously. I wasn't sure how to feel about having a security review done on me… But Pickering seems fairly harmless.

"How close are you to identifying the victim?" Booth asked.

"I may be jumping the gun, but-" Brennan started, admitting that she wasn't certain before she stated anything, but she was interrupted.

"That's music to my ears," Booth said half-seriously.

Brennan huffed before resuming. "Considering this forty-eight hour thing, we should be looking at Eastern European immigrants going back ten years."

"I can get that information for you." Booth said, his voice relaxing now that he had something to do. "Is Angela doing a facial reconstruction?"

"Yes," Brennan said as she got to the top of the stairs, taking a long stride to pass over the top step and begin walking along the balcony towards Angela's office.

"You know, if this works, I'm going to buy you a puppy," Booth promised. I snickered at that; Brennan with a puppy? That's funny.

Brennan apparently had the same thoughts. "That would be inadvisable," she denied shortly before continuing with, "You never told me how I was this morning. I asked, "How did I do?" and you said, "We'll talk about it in the car." But we never did."

Booth shoved his hands in his pockets again. "Was it your first TV interview?" He ventured hesitantly.

"Yes," Brennan answered, her frown deepening.

"It was fine," Booth hurried to say with a nod. "You know, for your first interview."

Brennan's face fell. "That was a qualified response!" She protested, her shoulders sinking.

"What?" Booth asked, before quickly denying it. "No! It was – It was lively." He turned in to Angela's office, passing through the open door quickly and taking a lead in front of Brennan, who followed, scowling at his back. I followed behind the anthropologist, suddenly hoping that I wouldn't get brought into the conversation.

"Lively? What kind of word is that?" She demanded.

"It's an adjective," Booth answered with a little, nervous smile. "Though, ironically, most words that end in a Y are adverbs, like "ironically.""

Brennan let her arms fall to her sides in disappointment and frustration. "Okay. What did I do wrong?" She asked.

Booth seemed relieved that she wasn't releasing fury on him. "Next time, tell a funny story!" He advised. "Oh, and never, never say you don't like children."

"You said you don't like children?" I repeated, cringing and covering my mouth with my hand when I realized I'd spoken out loud. "Oh. Sorry. I'm not here."

"I didn't say I don't like children," Brennan corrected me, her voice slightly higher than normal in her aggravation. "I just said I don't want any!"

"On TV, it's the same thing," Booth groused, stopping just in front of the holograph machine. Angela stood on the other side of it, holding her control pad in one hand and the stylus in the other, watching the two with raised eyebrows and sparkling eyes, but she didn't ask.

Angela didn't wait for any prompting. "The victim's skull was in good shape. There was no real shrinkage from the fire, so I'm running a comparison between the facial reconstruction and the photos in the immigration database." She looked from the computer behind her, which was displaying several faces in several rows as red and green lines ran over them, trying to compute a match. "So, I hear we're all going to get grilled by some mysterious government chick."

"I've been through this before," Brennan said dismissively, still crestfallen about Booth's opinion of her interview. "It's so we can work on classified cases – CIA, military."

"So why does she want to make a profile on me?" I asked, scowling and kicking lightly at the carpet with the toe of my shoe.

"If you want to stay working with us, then you'll probably be around for one," Brennan said, walking over to the computer to watch the program scan the various faces. "There isn't usually much warning before we get one."

"Why are you worried? Do you have something to hide?" Booth asked, only half-serious as he smirked at Angela.

Angela returned the playful banter, looking up at him slyly. "You'd better believe it."

"What kind of something?"

"The best kind."

I rolled my eyes as Brennan surveyed the computer screen before suddenly pointing at the monitor. "There!" She exclaimed with excitement. "That one!"

Angela looked away from Booth and walked over to the computer to stand beside Brennan, bringing the stylus to the touch pad. Her heels clicked on the linoleum. "Okay," she mumbled, stopping the program, isolating that picture, and pulling the file up on the screen.

"It's a good match," Brennan said with a decisive nod, proud of herself for seeing it.

Booth and I exchanged a look before silently agreeing to go look over their shoulders. Angela scrolled down with her stylus and the monitor on the computer showed the picture before moving down to the information. Angela read it off of the computer smoothly. "Paulina Rosalina Semov, born in 1970 in Cherdyn, Perm District of the Urals. She immigrated to the U.S. in 1994 with her sister, Maria. She married Carl Decker… they live in Cleveland Park."

"Children?" Booth asked her, looking over his shoulder at the open door briefly before turning back to the screen.

Angela nodded and sighed, closing her eyes for a minute, raising her hand to brush some of her hair out of her face. She took a minute to answer vocally, and during that time, Brennan and I were tactfully patient, both of us understanding that endangered children was extremely difficult for the emotionally-sensitive artist and the father. "…Donovan Dimitri Decker, born 1997. He's eight years old."

"This is good," I said, giving Angela a look of reassurance. "We know which child we're looking for. Eight-year-old Donovan Decker. The FBI can pull records and we can get leads based on motives, for who would have wanted to abduct him." I softened my voice, disappointed that Angela didn't really seem too enthused. "We'll find him," I promised. "And if he's not okay when we do find him, then I'll make damn sure we get whoever hurt him in prison for life."

Brennan looked out the window of the passenger's seat of Booth's FBI van, resting her chin on her knuckles while her elbow was on the edge of the window. Booth drove in the front while I sat in back, behind Booth's seat and across from the car seat behind Brennan. I glanced over at it occasionally. It was making me feel… domesticated, which I wasn't sure I liked, so I was trying to ignore the offending object.

"Paulina and Carl separated three months ago, so there are separate addresses for Mom and Dad," Brennan said sourly.

"Well, we know that Mom is in a drawer back in your lab," Booth said, his hands tightening for a moment around the wheel. "Let's go find Dad."

Wow. You guys are sure optimistic, I thought to myself sarcastically, even though I wasn't actually too surprised that they weren't all rainbows and cheer. "So, Booth, did you arrest someone really small recently? Like, "small" as in the size of the dwarf from that old Bad Santa movie?" I asked conversationally, unable to ignore the car seat anymore. Besides, I felt like it was important to talk about something less depressing.

"I had Parker the few days before we went to LA," Booth explained, and I was kind of pleased to hear his tone warm up when he mentioned his son. "I didn't get the time since to take out the car seat."

Brennan shook her head, staring out the window at the trees that we passed. "I don't know how you do that," she stated glumly.

Booth glanced over at her, raising his eyebrows. "Install a car seat in an FBI vehicle?"

Brennan shook her head vehemently and I got the sinking feeling that we would be going right back to upsetting topics of conversation. "Bring a kid into this world, knowing what you know. I'll bet Parker was an accident, right?" Brennan looked away from the window and to Booth. My jaw dropped and I let my head fall forward, covering my face with my hands. Oh… my… God. I can't believe she just said that. I know she doesn't have bad intentions, but… Christ, that's ridiculous. "Because his mother wouldn't marry you?" Booth's knuckles began to turn white as he clenched onto the steering wheel tightly. "What?"

"It never occurred to you that that might be a sensitive topic?" Booth demanded through grit teeth.

"Well, you could've gone with the "very small felon" story," she said with a shrug, looking back out the window.

"It's better for Parker being in the world," Booth said with an edge. "Someday, you'll see that."

"I won't."

"You'll change your mind."

"I don't do that."

"You will," Booth insisted.

"Yeah," Brennan agreed, irritated. "Maybe after I see how Decker reacts when you tell him that his wife is dead and his child has been kidnapped!" She snapped.

In spite of the quip, Booth was calming down. His grasp on the steering wheel was relaxing and his voice was no longer sounding so controlled and edgy. "Well, statistically speaking, we're going to find Donovan with his dad," he pointed out.

"It's true," I backed him up with a slight half-shrug. "Most kidnappings are committed by the estranged parents."

Brennan rolled her eyes and stared out the window again, steadfastly refusing to agree that Booth's life was better simply because Parker existed. I don't mean that to sound cold – I know she acknowledges that Parker makes Booth happy, but I think she's of the opinion that if Parker had never existed to begin with, Booth's quality of life wouldn't be hurt by it - not because Booth wouldn't care, but because you can't miss what you've never had. "You're certainly making the whole domestic scene more and more attractive."

We passed the rest of the ride in uncomfortable silence until Booth turned around the corner of a small but respectable neighborhood and pulled over to the side of the street, slowing the van to a stop.

"This is it?" Brennan asked, craning her neck to look around Booth and see the house. It seemed peaceful – cleanly-cut yard, painted a light blue and with white shingles and an off-white gutter pipe along the roof, leading down around to the back. The concrete walkway up to the wide porch had the vegetation trimmed away from it, and orchid pots sat on either side of the stairs leading up the porch that spanned the entire width of the house. The door was in the center and on either side there were windows looking in. I opened my door, jumped out of the vehicle, and closed the door lightly, careful not to make too much noise and disrupt the neighborhood.

"Yes," Booth answered, locking the car with a beep and starting to cross the mostly-empty street. The only other cars were in driveways, save for a black SUV parked a little ways in front of Booth's van. "You just hang back and let us do the talking," he told Brennan, and I shot him a look that clearly expressed that I wanted to be left out of their little lover's spat. I mean, seriously, just get a dog. It's like a compromise. Booth strode up the walkway to the door and knocked quickly, several times in rapid succession. "Mr. Decker!" He called. Brennan passed him and moved to the window to the left side of the porch. 'Bones, what are you doing?"

"What?" She asked, bending over and looking through the curtains to the inside. "Oh, it's tidy, Spartan even!" She stated, her voice conveying surprise even though it was slightly muffled because she wasn't looking up at us. "Is that normal for a recently separated man?"

I scoffed. "Clean and tidy isn't normal for any man, let alone one with marital issues." I glanced over at Booth, suddenly remembering that we were in the company of a man. "Oh, uh, no offense." I looked over at the SUV parked in front of Booth's van again. Something about it just seemed wrong. I leaned over the railing to look at it from another angle to see the license plate to see what state it was from. Maybe it doesn't even belong here. Unfortunately for me, it had no license plate. Damn. That can't mean anything good. "Booth," I called softly.

Brennan didn't hear me. She was describing what she saw inside with a tone of shock. "There's no TV, no magazines, no art, no stereo." Meanwhile, Booth listened to me and came over by me, looking at me questioningly. I pointed over at the back of the SUV and Booth inclined his chin slightly to show he noticed the lack of plates. "There's dust on everything." Movement caught my eye and I snapped my neck to look at the front window of the SUV. A pair of binoculars was moving back inside the car. I narrowed my eyes and Booth didn't say anything, just started walking off of the porch and down the concrete walkway. "I don't think he's been here in a while –wait, where are you going?"

The SUV's engine started and Booth started jogging, reaching for his gun with his dominant hand. "Wait here!" I yelled to Brennan, placing both hands on the porch's railing and jumping up, swinging my legs over the side and falling down to the yard. I turned around, pushing off against the porch and setting off in a dead run after the car as it started moving.

"Son of a bitch!" Booth cursed loudly, catching up with the SUV before I did. He slammed the side of his gun against the window, which shattered inwards. I moved around the car to the other side and yanked open the door, grabbing the man in black garb by his collar and dragging him out. I managed to get him onto the sidewalk before I realized he was armed. Around the car I heard the sounds of a scuffle as Booth forced the driver out of the car and onto the ground.

"They're armed!" I warned when I heard the click, and I let go of the one I'd been manhandling when I felt the clothes start to twist as he turned. I let my legs buckle and I fell to the ground just before a shot rang out. I rolled over quickly, knowing that I didn't stand much chance against a man with a gun, and rolled off of the pavement and onto the road. I covered my face with my hands as I rolled under the SUV while more shots were fired. Once I felt sunlight on my skin again, I pushed up to my knees and jumped onto the unsuspecting driver who had been firing at Booth.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, digging the heels of my shoes against his his stomach, and that combined with the sudden weight forced him to double over. With one arm I kept him in a stranglehold, and with the other I reached for the arm that had the gun and pulled his hand up so if he shot, no one would get hurt. The other man fired his gun again, but no stabbing pain flared out and no one screamed, so I assume he missed.

The man I was on backed up suddenly, crushing me against the SUV in an attempt to make me let go. I grunted, but held on. Unfortunately, he was not so lucky. Since he'd straightened his back so I'd get the brunt of the blow, he couldn't bend over again. His knees collapsed and as he fell forward onto the ground, I wrested the gun away from him and stood up from over him, jumping away so he couldn't grab at my legs. I backed up away from them both and to Booth's side, and the two of us pointed the firearms at the other two.

"Booth! Holly!" Brennan shouted, rushing down the concrete path from the porch.

"Stay where you are!" I ordered, seeing the man I'd initially attacked and who'd tried to make a hole in my stomach eyeing her and raising his gun. I pointed the gun I'd stolen at the second man while the first scrambled to his knees, one hand raised to his throat where I'd strangled him. The still armed man paused as I pressed my finger over the trigger threateningly, not afraid of shooting him the way he'd tried to shoot me. "If you fire any more shots we'll shoot you! Come on, it's two against one! Be reasonable and surrender!" I commanded, my chest heaving as I took deep breaths. Ow. That's the worst fight I've been in in a long time.

Brennan stopped, looking on anxiously while the still armed man looked at both of the weapons trained on him before making the smart decision. He tossed the gun on the ground and raised his hand behind his head.

"FBI," Booth stated sharply, glaring coldly at the two.

"U.S. Marshals," the one that had just thrown his gun yelled back.

Booth froze. "U.S. Marshals?" He repeated, like he thought he'd heard wrong.

Brennan raised her hands up. "Forensic anthropologist!" She called, before adding, "That's why no gun."

I took my finger off of the trigger and lowered the stolen firearm. "What the hell is your problem, man?!" I screamed, infuriated. "I'm a minor and you tried to fucking shoot me in the God damn chest! You're sick! U.S. Marshals – you tried to kill me! That is a little thing called murder and it's illegal and aside from that it's just more than a little rude!"