I stepped into Brennan's office after taking some time for myself up in the loft - I got some water and chips to snack on while I calmed down from Ortez's attack and then just laid back and stared at the ceiling for a while. Now the tension is visibly gone from my body and it feels great to not have that strain in my shoulders. "Hodgins is rerunning particulates through the mass spectrometer," I announced before seeing Angela seated in a chair across from Brennan, who sat at her desk.

"And you!" Angela stood up from her chair and turned on me. I held up my hands behind my head in surrender, my eyes wide at the sudden exclamation.

"Yes. Me. Hello." Was all I could think of to say at the moment.

"What were you thinking?" She demanded. She didn't seem angry, just… I don't know. Frightened? Concerned? She definitely looked stressed. Her hair fell over her shoulders and in front of her face but she didn't care enough to move it.

"Uh…" I started, looking to Brennan for help. She offered me a half smile but it seemed more like a grimace. "I was thinking…" I started, but she huffed and put her hands on her hips, giving me a look that was just daring me to finish that sentence. I revised my sentence. "I wasn't thinking," I decided on saying, shaking my head before pausing. "Hang on. Before I drive myself deeper into a grave, can you tell me what it is that I did?"

Angela sighed, rolling her eyes up to look at the ceiling in frustration. She threw her arms up in the air. "You. You and Bren got in a fight with a gangbanger!" She emphasized, bringing her hands back down and covering her face, taking a deep breath to try to calm down. Oh my God. She's angry at me because she's actually worried about my safety. I really had not seen that coming. No one's been that concerned about me in a long time.

I frowned. "Sorry… was that wrong?" I ventured. She pulled her hands down to give me a 'look.' I looked away to Brennan and shrugged. "It felt right." And it really had. He'd been leering at Brennan like he would a piece of meat and I'd gotten a bit protective of her, so I really had no qualms with beating him up in the middle of the FBI.

And if anyone asks, I didn't provoke it.

Brennan looked back up to Angela with a completely sincere look of apology. She seemed genuinely regretful when she brought her shoulders up defensively and said, "I'm sorry I upset you. It's just that I've dealt with him before."

Angela sat back down, the fire seeming to leave her personality briefly. "With who?"

"People who get what they want through fear." She answered, looking down to the papers on her desk. "Gangbangers, members of death squads…" she trailed off. We got the message.

Angela stopped and folded her hands in her lap. She looked at her friend with sympathy. "Okay, I know it's psychology again, but you said 'him,' like one guy."

Brennan frowned and bit her lip for a moment before she looked back up. "I didn't mean Ortez specifically." Her eyes slid away from Angela and I hovered in the doorway awkwardly. Angela brought me into the conversation - should I stay? But then, it seems like a personal thing. I don't want to invade… "I meant people like him."

"What did anyone do to you, though?" I asked softly, sincerely concerned. "In the interrogation room, your behavior was different. You were a lot more confrontational, which usually translates to defensive, and it leads me to think that someone did something to you."

Brennan sighed softly - I could barely hear it. But it meant that I was correct. I stepped closer from the door after a moment of deliberation and clasped my hands in front of me silently, moving until I was only a few feet from the older women. "Do you remember when I went on my last trip to El Salvador?" Brennan asked.

Angela answered her quietly, able to tell that it was a sensitive topic. Of course she could, she's the down-to-Earth type and she's Brennan's best friend. "Yes, I remember. I tried to get you to go to Italy with me." She smiled slightly, still amused by that argument.

Brennan continued like she hadn't heard the interruption. If it was that hard to talk about then it was probably easier to continue and get it all out at once. "I was in a tent, set up by one of the grave sites. I was working with the remains of a young girl… maybe thirteen." Brennan shrugged slightly; apparently she'd never completed the examination. Her voice hardened for the next part. "She'd been shot in the head and dumped into a well." Angela winced. "This cop shows up, and he might have been a soldier…" Brennan shook her head slightly, but she still wasn't really looking at either of us. Her hair hung around her face like a protective curtain. "It's not easy to tell. I thought he was there to guard me, but he told me to stop."

My breath caught for a second but I forced myself to calm down. Heart, stop working overtime. Clearly, she's okay now. But I could see where it was going… why would a soldier or guard tell a hired anthropologist to stop identifying victims, unless it was a cover up or an inside job? Either way it wouldn't bode well when she inevitably refused.

"When I refused," there we go, "He called in two others." Brennan looked back up, straight at me, and I was shocked to see that her eyes were red, like she was continuously struggling not to cry. It was hard to keep up the image of not caring too deeply, so I gave up and let myself frown softly in empathy. "They put a bag over my head and tossed me into a cell with a dirt floor and no windows."

Angela had started biting her nails, but she pulled her hand down and blinked at Brennan, obviously bothered, before she asked tentatively, "How long?" Like she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

Brennan shrugged, trying to act like she didn't care as much as she did. "Later, I found out it was three days. But…" she stopped for a minute and swallowed, before looking back and locking eyes with Angela. I felt like I was intruding on something incredibly sensitive and personal. "But I thought it was a week, maybe more. He came in, every day, and made me believe I was going to die." I glanced at Angela, who was frowning and blinking frequently like she really was holding back tears. "He said that he'd shoot me and toss me into a well, and that no one would ever know who I was, or what had become of me.

"I promised myself if I ever had the chance, I'd get even." Brennan shrugged her shoulders with an air of finality and shook her head, like she was shaking off a bad memory that insisted on clinging on. She looked back over to me for a moment before going to Angela to finish with, "That doesn't mean I need therapy."

Angela nodded slowly and softly in understanding, still shocked and a bit horrified by the revelation. Angela's just now hearing this, and she heard it with a virtual stranger in the room. Although I'd fight for these people, the fact remains that I keep things about myself pretty close. They know the basics, even the guarded fact that I'd been awfully abused, but they don't know my favorite colors or songs or anything like that, all things that they'd know about their closest friends. It bothers me sometimes, that I feel so close to them, and then have to remind myself that I'm not.

Hodgins broke the moment by walking in. No one had seemed to notice his footsteps. "I identified the type of wood in the weapon that killed Maria." He was slightly out of breath in his excitement. Angela and Brennan exchanged another look of silent understanding before Brennan looked over towards me. Hodgins held up his hands defensively and looked around before asking warily (in what sounded almost like fear), "Am I interrupting a… female moment?"

I shook my head, unable to help but give a small smile. "No, the "female moment" is over," I used air quotations to mock his fearful phrasing. I smirked to show that I was teasing. "What was the wood?"

Hodgins sighed in relief before replying, "Quarter-sawn cumuru. Definitely not from the shovel handle."

Angela blinked several times. "What is made out of quarter-sawn cumuru?" She asked, emphasizing the words as she tried them out. It sounded elegant.

"Very expensive furniture," Hodgins answered, his lips beginning to pull up in a smile.

"Senatorially expensive?" Brennan tilted her head at him knowingly.

Hodgins' smile turned into a full-blown grin. "Most definitely."

"Thank you again, Mrs. Corman," I thanked with one of my sweet half-smiles, taking the juice box.

I do like the senators that aren't trying to cover up affairs. Well, to be more accurate, their wives.

"Of course," she nodded, returning a smile of her own before looking towards Booth. "I take it you have a picture of Maria?" Booth nodded and that prompted Brennan, who unfolded Angela's sketch and held it out ot the senator's wife. She squinted, turning her head to look from a new angle, but shook her head regretfully. "I'm sorry. I don't recognize her, no."

Her husband cleared his throat. "Neither do I, I'm afraid."

"How about you, Hector?" Booth asked, looking to the gardener while I started drinking my apple juice. It really is surprising what little things I appreciate - most people are just like, oh, it's apple juice, but I react like a ten year old given chocolate since I haven't had it very often growing up.

The Hispanic man stepped forward next to the senator and I saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. "Her name was Maria," I prompted around my plastic straw.

Hector nodded to himself and closed his eyes briefly, presumably trying to remember more about her work. "She used to work as a maid here," he recalled, opening his eyes. "She had papers."

"Fake ones," Booth muttered to himself, turning his head slightly to Brennan. "Probably supplied by our friendly neighborhood gang."

It was a good thing I was drinking, because if not, I probably would have corrected him with less kind language about the 'friendly' part of that sentence.

Senator Corman stepped in before anyone else could say anything to defend his employee. "Hector couldn't possibly be expected to identify forged papers."

I stopped for a moment. "Of course not, Senator. People with certain connections can make remarkably accurate forgeries and sometimes it takes equipments to test for authenticity. I highly doubt that Hector is the only one fooled by papers by the same supplier."

"What happened to Maria?" Brennan asked Hector, going straight to business. Having smoothed that over, I happily returned to the juice, standing a few feet away from Mrs. Corman and watching the scene unfold.

"One day, she didn't show up for work." Hector shrugged dismissively. "That's all."

"Did she interact with anyone here besides Jose?" Booth shoved his fists in his pockets out of lack of anything to do with his hands. It seems a very common motion for him.

Hector shook his head, chuckling, reading too far into it. "I don't know about that kind of thing."

Booth caught onto the way he automatically interpreted it as meaning 'intimate relations.' "What kind of thing, Hector?"

"I don't know anything," he denied quickly.

Senator Corman wasn't a complete idiot - he turned and crossed his arms, staring down at his employee. "What do you mean, Hector?"

"Was Maria involved with the senator?" Booth pressed, looking away from both of the Cormans.

Corman himself reeled at the accusation. "What?" He blustered, while Mrs. Corman scoffed indignantly. "Of course not!"

"No." Fortunately for the senator, Hector disagreed with the question as well. "No, not the senator."

Mrs. Corman reached out to clasp to her husband's hand but urged Hector on, almost desperate to get this over with. "Well, tell the truth, Hector! This is the FBI!"

"Logan," Hector stressed, closing his eyes for a moment before looking up to the ceiling. The Cormans' faces were completely stunned and would have been comical under different circumstances. "She was involved with Logan."

Brennan and I both exchanged a knowing look and I nodded slightly to her. She looked back to Hector and raised her eyebrows curiously. "What kind of involved?"

"What kind of involved?" I asked Logan, trying to sound offhanded as I looked around his room, wallpapered in an elegant designed golden and tan pattern. The floor was carpeted with a soft beige, and his bed was just… wow. A king size with a royal blue duvet and a body pillow on either side, the bed's posts went up and were topped by decorations that came to a sharp spiral. It was clear that this was a rich boy.

It turns out that if adults see you as a child, then they don't keep as much of an eye on you as they do the actual adults, so that was how I'd managed to sneak off. After asking an employee where Logan was and saying that I was with the FBI, I was directed to Logan's bedroom, where he'd been on his Apple laptop, chilling out and surfing the net.

Ah, I am good. Without his parents' pressure, or nerves from a heavy government presence, Logan won't be as pressed to tell what wouldn't get him in trouble. Hopefully his conscience would ensure he told the truth about his relationship with Maria.

Logan stepped to the desk, made of the same deep, red-tinted wood of his bed, and closed the lid of his computer softly. "I'd rather not say."

I looked back to him from where I'd been looking at the contents of his bookshelf. He's blushing. "Ah. So don't tell me. That's alright, I like a challenge." I glanced back to the books before nodding and going back to him. "You have good taste, I've got to give you that. To Kill a Mockingbird, Romeo and Juliet… you've got some classics. Now you're also blushing, which means embarrassment, which generally means taboo." I smiled at him brightly. "So your relationship with Maria was inappropriate. To phrase it differently: you were banging your maid."

Although it was a euphemism, it was still rather blunt and it had the desired effect. "I don't have to tell you about my life," Logan started to protest, running a hand through his hair in stress.

"Chill out," I ordered calmly, sitting on the side of the bed. The duvet was soft and warm and I really wish I had a bed like this instead of my sofa. "We're not here about citizenships or affairs. Logan, Maria was murdered."

I watched the senator's son with rapt attention, discerning his reaction. He was shocked, clearly, and looked devastated. His eyes widened, his breathing picked up, and he shook his head slightly in a futile attempt at denial. "Ma… Maria's dead?" He questioned, his eyes looking visibly pained. He stumbled and sat down on the bed a few feet away from me, closer to the pillows, and clapped his hands onto his jean-clad thighs. "Yes… of course, that changes things."

His voice was faint in shock. Of course, why would I lie? It's not like I gain anything. "My condolences," I offered automatically before continuing with a bit more sympathy in my voice. "Her brother attempted to rebury her after the original site was compromised. That's how we found out. We don't know who, or why, but we know she was killed by a blow to the head. She probably didn't expect the attack. Do you know anyone who had it out for her?"

Empathy only goes so far in a homicide case. Tactfulness and investigation do not usually go hand in hand.

"No." Logan shook his head, taking several deep breaths to try to calm himself. "No, Maria was nice. She was… sweet."

It was very hard to resist rolling my eyes. Well, you were sleeping with her, so obviously you'd think so. "It's alright," I said instead, able to tell he'd need a minute to get back to a good state of mind. "Take a minute. I know it's a shocker." I ran my hand along the bedpost. It was smooth, sanded, and the color was very appealing, as far as plain darks go. It was tinted with dark red and the dark brown color mixed well, making it nearly auburn, but not quite. Expensive, but probably worth it. Very expensive, at that. Very… senatorially expensive.

"Thank you." Logan covered his mouth with the heel of his hand and blinked rapidly.

"Don't forget to breathe. Breathing's good." Without missing a beat, I changed the subject. "So, how long have you had this bed? It's very nice."

Logan shrugged, dazed. "Um, I dunno… since I was about fifteen. Why?"

I ignored the last question. "Do you know what kind of wood it's made of?"

"Curu…" Logan paused and shook his head, stumbling slightly over the words. "Cumuru… something like that. Why?" He asked again, sounding more insistent on an answer.

"Maria was killed by a blow to the head with something made of cumuru wood," I murmured softly, eyeing the finials suspiciously. "Hang on a minute." I turned and crawled up onto the bed, knees and hands sinking into the duvet, before I stood up awkwardly on the mattress and stepped towards the bedpost at the foot of the bed. Steadying myself with a cautionary hand on the side of the post, I hung half-off to see the outward-facing side of the finial.

More than being red-tinted, there was dried blood caked into the creases of the spiraled patterns of the expertly-sanded decoration.

This first thing I said after figuring out the murder weapon was, "Damn, I'm getting good at this."

"Here," I offered, sliding a plastic cup of cool water over to Logan, where he sat across the table from me. On the side and facing the both of us was the Senator's lawyer, who was apparently very good at his job. I still think I can get answers I want. This interrogation room is seriously becoming, like, my second home or something. It's seriously the one place I can guilt, lie to, intimidate, and manipulate people and not be held accountable for it. This room makes my moonlighting a lot easier.

"Thanks." Logan seemed grateful but he didn't move to take it from where it sat stationary on the table. "I caught Maria dancing once, in the hallway." He was immediately taken back to his memories and instead of looking at me, he was looking at something past my shoulder, zoning out slightly. He smiled to himself. "She thought no one was watching, but I was watching. I'd noticed her before." He forced himself to look at Angela's sketch, laying on the table in front of him. "She was, uh… very pretty. More than what these pictures tell you."

The lawyer sighed softly and pushed his glasses further up his nose. "Logan, I will say again that I do not advise answering questions. You are not under arrest," he emphasized calmly.

I scowled at him for only a moment before looking back to Logan. "Okay, fair cop. He's right," I ceded. "Then again, we have evidence that Maria was murdered in your room, so if you want to be arrested, then don't answer questions. I assure you that if you don't answer then we will, because by remaining silent you appear guilty."

Logan raised his shoulders and lowered his eyes down to the table. "I'll answer," he murmured softly. "I didn't kill her." He shot an apologetic look to the lawyer.

"Thank you." It meant more in courtesy than in actual sincerity. "When did your sexual relationship with Maria begin?"

Logan blinked down at the sketch on the table. "Perhaps… six months?" He estimated, reaching up to scratch the back of his head, making his hair look even less tame than it already had.

"And you kept it a secret?" I prompted, raising my eyebrows in demand of an explanation. I mean, Logan's a teenage boy and Maria was probably one of the few women he had regular contact with. It's not like it was a crime; if anything, it made sense.

"Maria was certain that if my parents found out, she'd be fired," Logan explained, his hand dropping awkwardly back to his lap.

"And were you aware that she was in America illegally?"

The lawyer inclined his chin. "I advise you not to answer that question," he said, clipped and firm.

Logan looked over at the lawyer and then looked down again, rubbing his palms against his jeans.

I rolled my eyes. Damn lawyers. Maybe a different question, then. "What were you planning to do about the pregnancy?" What if someone had found out and then decided take matters into their own hands? Maybe they'd gone to a private doctor or public clinic.

Logan looked up from his lap, gasping, his eyes wide in shock. "M-Maria… was pregnant?!" He stammered.

I closed my eyes and sighed softly. He hadn't already known. "Yes, she was." I nodded slowly. I'd assumed that he'd known his girlfriend was pregnant instead of realizing that she probably would have panicked and kept it to herself.

The lawyer started to move like he was going to reach out to take Logan's hand in comfort but must have thought better of it. Family friend, then. That does explain why he got here so quickly. "Logan, there's no proof that you were the father."

Logan shook his head. "No, shut up!" He shouted. I looked past him at the wall awkwardly, uncomfortable with the tears beginning to flow. "Of course I'm the father!" He put his head in his hands, shoulders shaking as it really sunk in. "Oh, God!"

I figured that I really wasn't going to get anything from him while he was in this state, so I quietly excused myself. But at least I know one thing; Logan isn't the killer. He was distraught Maria was dead and he seemed to infatuated with her to have assaulted her. Besides, the force needed to hit her head on something so high would have been more than Logan possessed.

Brennan made sure the door between the observation room and the interrogation room was closed before she asked me, "What about the father?"

I shrugged and pushed aside my hair, taking off the earpiece. I turned it off before setting it with the spares on the sill of the one-way mirror. "A powerful guy, and he's a senator so he'd have a lot at stake. But kill her? No, too much forensic evidence and it could crash his world down around him. He'd probably just deport her in the middle of the night. No witnesses to testify."

"Which leaves Hector," Brennan noted.

"Well." I made sure the cameras were still recording before I motioned to the door leading out to the hallway. Brennan nodded slightly, agreeing to give the grieving teen some privacy, while I continued with my opinions. "He's responsible for hiring everyone. If one of the maids gets pregnant, he probably feels like it's his job to fix it - he keeps his job and there's no fire being lit at the senator's heels." We fell into step beside each other in the hallway.

"What we still need to figure out is how Maria's skull was fractured by the bedpost," she finished to herself, sounding more than a little frustrated by our cluelessness to this point.

I reached out and pressed the button for the elevator to come to us. "The tricky part is that her head was bashed in on the outside of the finial. The conclusion would have to be fairly unorthodox, rather than just a shove." The elevator dinged and the doors started to slide in. "Angela's holograms sure are useful in these situations, aren't they?"

Angela narrated as she entered the data into her tablet and the image through the holographs became fuzzy before clearing - a short, distinctly feminine figure solidified as much as possible for a projection by another figure, darker and taller at about six feet.

"Your top three suspects are Senator Corman, six foot one, Logan Corman, five foot ten, and Hector Santiago at five foot six. The victim, Maria, was five foot one."

"The bed is a king-size Californian. I'd say the posts are seven feet high," I put in, having been the one to first see the bed and then establish it as the murder weapon.

"Assuming that they argued near the foot of the bed…" Brennan started. She shifted her weight to one leg and crossed one arm over her chest, raising the other in front of her mouth. She narrowed her eyes at the projections as she trailed off.

Angela played the scenario and the taller figure shoved Maria's representation. The female went sprawling backwards, but her head didn't hit the top of the post. "Given their relative heights, the angle of impact doesn't match," she shook her head slightly. "Her skull connects well below the traces of blood."

"What if they were standing on the bed?" Brennan suggested helpfully.

I shook my head, closing my eyes for a minute. "No, that doesn't work. Her head struck the outside of the finial."

Brennan shifted again before her eyes tore away from the figures. She looked straight through the hologram to Angela. "How tall would the assailant have to be to fit the evidence?" We had to wait a minute while Angela frowned down at her tablet, and the projection changed to represent the inputs. The darker, masculine figure stretched up to tower over Maria's. "Wow…" Brennan did a double-take. "That - That's tall."

"Seven foot eight." Angela smiled wryly. "Someone you'd probably notice around the house."

"Well, that didn't work," I stated bluntly.

"Let's think outside the box," Brennan decided, crossing both of her arms decisively.

Angela smiled and giggled. "What do you mean? Go non-human?"

At the thought of Brennan suspecting the city's resident vampire or werewolf, I smirked. "Maybe we should look up any local giants in the phonebook."

Brennan gave us both her patented look, like a schoolteacher annoyed by a problem student's repetitive insubordination. "No," she answered firmly, giving us that scolding tone. "What else explains striking the bedpost in that manner?"

Angela took a few seconds, but she managed to get a grip on her giggles. "I guess falling?" She suggested.

"Falling," Brennan repeated to herself softly before she nodded to herself and rolled with it. "Maria was a maid. Do you have a schematic version of the room?"

The holograph created a sort of translucent blueprint showing the bed and all four walls in orange-yellow glow. "If she fell backwards from a ladder, then the height would be right!" I exclaimed delightedly, pointing to the bedpost. The projector created Maria and the ladder at an angle from the finial where she hit her head and at the creep factor of my hand going through her abdomen, I pulled back and frowned at the holograph.

"The height works, but the force doesn't explain the damage to her skull," Angela sighed, holding her tablet close and looking at the holograph in both frustration and empathy.

"Well, what force does explain the damage?" Brennan asked.

Angela pulled up the information with a stylus and Brennan and I exchanged a look. "Two hundred pounds per square inch, which means she would've had to have fallen from a height of…" she saw the answer on the computer and her eyes widened for a moment. She sighed. "It's no good. She'd had to have been above the ceiling."

"Maybe we need to abandon the ladder theory," I suggested, trying to seem like I wasn't as disheartened as I actually felt.

"No," Brennan said slowly, shaking her head. I looked over to her in curiosity. What other scenario could we try with the ladder? But her eyes were alight and her lips were very slightly upturned, like she was triumphant. She looked away from the projection and to me. "I know what happened," she breathed, stunned. "She was yanked off the ladder."

"Somebody pulled her off?" I questioned, looking back to the projection. The scenario stopped and faded out as Angela canceled it, preparing to rearrange the process.

"Yes!" Brennan seemed so sure about it that she was probably correct. "Yes, the missing eighty-four pounds per square inch can be explained by a hard yank from a full grown man." The scenario replayed itself with the darker figure pulling Maria's wrist and tugging her backwards. The figure's head hit the bedpost and the form went completely limp, falling to the ground. Brennan's theory was confirmed. She seemed grimly satisfied. "I don't know if it's murder," she admitted. "But someone is definitely responsible for Maria's death."

"You can talk to us, Jose," I told the beaten up man honestly, shutting the door privately behind me. Brennan and Booth both moved to stand by the foot of the bed, hands in their pockets like they had last time, while I moved to the side of the bed by the chart. His oxygen stats were up in the low nineties now and the mask over his face had been left off, the nasal tubes doing the job just as efficiently. "Your sister's death had nothing to do with Mara Muerte, or any other gang for that matter."

"Maria was pulled off of a ladder and hit her head on a bedpost while she was cleaning," Brennan explained softly, being tactful to the sensitive information.

To his credit, Jose barely even blinked at it. All I noticed him do was swallow. "Who are you protecting?" Booth asked, although his voice was a lot less rough than it had been the last time we talked to him - because while Jose was still in a gang, and still an illegal immigrant, he had been trying to help his family.

Jose narrowed his eyes at Booth like he thought it was a trick and he stayed steadfast in his position of silence. "I got nothing to say," he declared.

"What did the senator offer you, huh?" Booth prompted, lifting his hands from his pockets and instead crossing his arms over his chest. "An asylum, for the whole family?"

Brennan jutted her arm out and her elbow caught Booth's ribs subtly. He flinched away and rolled his shoulders, giving her a slightly offended look that she ignored. "I know what happened," she said quietly, tilting her head at him and empathizing past Booth's rough treatment. "Your father died of cancer around the same time your wife was pregnant. You wanted your child to be born an American citizen so you couldn't report your father's death for fear of being deported."

"You buried your father in the garden," I told him. I felt a bit odd, telling him about the sensitive information that he clearly already knew. I suppose that we need to prove we really do know before he cooperates. "When your sister died, you buried her in the same place."

Jose inclined his chin slightly to Booth, locking eyes with the agent and showing him that no matter what happened, he wasn't going to regret getting caught trying to do something for his family. "As my father died… he said to me, "you take care of your sister.""

Booth lifted his head in acknowledgment. "You joined Mara Muerte to get the fake papers so that she could work for the senator," he predicted correctly.

Jose smiled, although it was twisted, longing, and wistful. He wanted to go back to the way things used to be because he was relatively safe and had his sister and father, too. "Maria…" he chuckled weakly. "Maria, man, she was so angry. She would, she'd get so angry. Sometimes, she just didn't speak to me, you know?"

"She didn't understand what you had to do for her and your family." I empathized with him and what I said showed it. I just understood, because there were some things I did to protect things I hold dear (ethics and values) that other people wouldn't have appreciated. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to stab a man, but I did it to protect a child. It was worth it to me, although another person would have said I should have gotten the hell out and let the adults deal with it.

Jose must have seen that I really understood because he blinked and his eyes started to water. "It was the only way for me to keep my promise to my father." His voice tensed and nearly caught. "Look at me now, huh?" He gestured lamely to the hospital equipment. "All because I wanted to give my sister and my father a beautiful place to rest. It's near… It's near a pond. It's beautiful, huh?" He shook his head and a couple of tears escaped, rolling down his cheeks. "It's all for nothing," he mourned angrily. "My family's ruined."

"Not ruined," I corrected him gently. "Because you lost your father and sister, but you still have your wife and child. And that's worth hanging on for."

"She didn't fall," I said, standing in Logan's room with Brennan, Booth, Hector, and the Cormans. My back was to the bedpost responsible for bashing in Maria's skull and effectively killing her.

"No," the senator agreed fiercely. "She was pushed." He paced back and forth around a five-foot space while his wife stood stationary beside Booth. Hector stood by a tall metal ladder leaning against a wall and Brennan ran her fingers up one of the legs before beginning to lift it up and carry it towards the bedpost.

"Actually, Senator, she was pulled," Brennan corrected, huffing slightly as she carried the big ladder. She knocked it onto the floor at an angle and dragged the other legs back, opening it at a sharp acute angle and letting it settle, the steps in front of the bedpost in question. "Probably off of that ladder."

"Pulled?" Mrs. Corman repeated, one of her hands lifting over her collarbone in surprise. Maybe she'd thought that it had been an accident? "Pulled by who?"

"Perhaps, by your son…" Booth started, and it was clear by the way that her eyes focused on Booth and the look turned mean that she didn't like that. "Or perhaps by the senator." Her eyes flew to her husband and the senator in question blustered in offense.

"My God!" He gasped, before yelling, "I do not pull maids off of ladders!"

Mrs. Corman crossed her arms over her chest in appall and demanded of Booth, "Why would they do something like that?" in a half sarcastic, half hysterical tone.

They were a lot nicer when they were giving me apple juice and cooperating with us.

"Because Maria was pregnant by your son," Booth answered, after glancing at me, shrugging, and throwing all cautions to the wind.

"What?!" The gasp and shrill exclamation were predictable from Mrs. Corman. I almost felt bad for her - she looked about ready to faint.

Corman didn't deny this. He probably knew that we knew better than to make crazy accusation and also that we probably had proof. At least he wasn't too naive to completely ignore the possibility. "Even if that were true," he hissed irately. "That is not how we would handle the situation!"

I scoffed and crossed my arms. "No, you'd just have her deported in the dark of night," I accused under my breath, but knew that the issues with immigrations were better left for another argument, another day.

I was a bit bothered that the senator didn't try to deny it though. "It would be handled," he maintained fiercely. "And not by pulling her off a ladder!"

Brennan set her hands on either side of the ladder and stepped up onto the first, second, and then third rung. Out of a bit of paranoia, I put one foot up onto the lowest rung on the back of the ladder, just so that I could hop on in case it started to tilt over. "Senator," Brennan started, letting go of the ladder and asserting her balance. "Would you mind reaching up?"

Corman glared up at her in distaste. "What is that going to prove?" He demanded harshly.

"Are you refusing, sir?" Booth asked, cocking his head in question.

Brennan didn't make any accusations, just answered the question posed a moment ago. "I'm trained in kinesiology, the study of human movement," she explained.

Corman rolled his eyes. "And you're going to be able to tell who pulled her off the ladder?" He guessed skeptically, rude and brash. Politicians can get mean.

"Absolutely, yes." If Brennan took note of the rudeness in his tone, she didn't acknowledge it.

Mrs. Corman laid a hand on her husband's shoulder and shook her head, just as stressed and displeased as her husband was. "Oh, for God's sake, Alan, just do it!" She snapped, before sending Booth an exasperated dirty look. "Just do it."

Corman made a show of sighing. "Fine." He stepped up to the ladder and Brennan held out her arm helpfully. He reached up to grasp her wrist and gave her a yank before stepping back. "Well?" He asked, turning to walk back to his wife and throwing his hands in the air. "Was it me?"

Brennan tilted her head back and forth like she was trying to decide. "Hector?" She prompted, looking back towards the employee.

Hector looked up at her from where he'd been attentively watching the Cormans, his hands clasped in front of him, looking rather unthreatening. He blinked like he'd been startled. "¿Sí?"

Brennan raised her eyebrows slightly but assumed he was just not paying attention. She held out the same arm the senator had tugged towards the Hispanic. "Would you please pull me down off this ladder?" It was admittedly an odd request, but it didn't justify the refusal she received.

"No." Hector blinked and then shook his head, but he maintained a pleasant smile and calm demeanor. "No, I won't."

Corman groaned. "Hector, just do as she asks," he ordered, wanting to get this over with and done.

Hector took a single step forward and moved his hand like he was about to reach up, but hesitated. "Hector?" Mrs. Corman started, her eyes widening in confusion.

I stared at the employee and tried not to sigh. "How did it happen, Hector?" I asked, taking care to banish frustration and empathy from my voice so I sounded uncaring. People who kill don't deserve my empathy. Just because he got pissed off doesn't mean it's okay to tug someone off of a ladder. It's not like it's a freak accident, it's a genuine safety hazard. "You told her to stay out of Logan's room, didn't you? Because you didn't approve. You knew what was going on."

"Hector?" Corman asked, looking at his employee now with anxiety and confusion turning slightly to dread.

Brennan looked to Booth for a moment before looking back to Hector, holding out her hand. "If it wasn't you, just pull me down," she told him, sounding perfectly rational.

Hector signed his own arrest warrant by defying her and shaking his head.

"Maria defied you. She went to Logan's room and you got angry. You pulled her off the ladder." Booth reached behind him with one hand, despite the calm voice he used, and I heard the soft clinking of his handcuffs.

Brennan twisted back around so she was facing the ladder and stepped down the rungs one at a time until both of her feet were on solid ground. "It was an accident," she prompted him.

Hector let out a great sigh, his chest inflating and deflating as he looked away from the Cormans shamefully. "Yeah. It was an accident."

Mrs. Corman made a little squeaking noise and the senator stared at Hector, wide-eyed in shock, and moved slightly in front of his wife like Hector was suddenly likely to charge them.

"I can't believe that worked," Brennan whispered to me when I let go of the ladder and moved around it to stand between Hector and the Cormans with her.

"Psychology, Dr. Brennan," I replied in kind, shrugging.

"I gave her five hundred dollars, and I drove her home," Hector explained, trying to justify what he'd done to lessen the sentence, or at least his bosses' perceptions of him. "I thought she was gonna go to a doctor."

"Her papers were forged. She was afraid she'd lose her job and get deported. Rather than take that risk, she came back to work," I stated, filling in the blanks for the Cormans, who didn't have all of the details.

Mrs. Corman looked away from Hector and raised a hand to cover her face, like she didn't want him to see her. "You should have told us," she said in a dry sob, disappointed with Hector for what he'd done more than grieving for a maid she'd barely known.

"You don't want to know," Hector told them with quite a bit of attitude. It's not like he has to worry about his job anymore - he'll be going to jail, if not for murder, then for manslaughter. "You don't wanna know about any of this. I know my job, I know what you want."

Booth interrupted the scene before it got any worse and he pulled the handcuffs from behind his back. They clinked together as they swung from his hand. He held them up in a silent question of whether or not we'd need to restrain him or if he'd come peacefully. In response, Hector closed his eyes and sighed, turning around with his wrists held behind his back.

"Hector Santiago, I'm placing you under arrest for the suspicion of manslaughter."

Booth took leave early from his office, resigning to finishing his paperwork later, after the funeral for Jose's late family. After the arrest two days ago, things had fallen into place. Brennan had spoken to Jose and financed a respectful funeral of the Salvadoran's design for his father and sister. Booth sent a message to immigration, telling them to release Jose's wife and son. They'd be taking their leave from the country on their own, aware they were exposed.

Brennan had volunteered to pick up Holly from the bar in time for the funeral, allowing Booth to work on the more mundane part of his job, and he was glad to leave, even if it was for a somewhat depressing reason.

"Booth?" Another agent - a younger recruit - called his name, jogging to catch up to him in the hallway. Booth managed to stop himself from groaning. So close. He shot a longing look to the elevators before turning around the face his summons.

"Yeah?"

The agent (Booth couldn't remember his name at the moment) looked down at a single piece of paper he held in his hands. "Message from the Gang Task Force Unit," he read off, passing along the memo, as was his job. Sometimes the younger agents were sent to give messages between floors if the destinations weren't too far apart. "Mara Muerte has put a hit out on your lady scientist and the girl with you."

Booth tilted his head to read the writing upside down and moaned softly when he saw the recorded documents of the hit targets placed on Temperance Brennan, Ph.D, and Holly Kirkland. "Oh, man."

"Have you got a response?" The agent asked helpfully, watching him with sympathy and cringing when he saw the anger flash in Booth's eyes.

He knew he should have stopped them when they beat up Ortez, even if it was self-defense.

"Uh…" Booth was far too distracted to really care about niceties, so he waved the other agent away in blatant dismissal. "Just tell 'em I got the message… and tell them thanks."

"Sure." The recruit nodded and turned to hurry away to return to work.

Booth sat down on a bench along the wall, debating what he could do to keep his partners alive and unharmed.

I stood between Brennan and Angela with my arms crossed in front of me, standing to the right of the rows of white folding chairs. The funeral was elegant and expensive, with rich wooden coffins for both Augustine and Maria. The tables they were set on were wrapped and decorated in flowers and notes. Garlands were strung through the branches of the surrounding trees and the chairs were cordoned off with long garlands of flowers wound together.

I wore the same dark sweater I'd worn to Warren's funeral and dark jeans. I'd let my hair stay down for the funeral; it seemed a bit more formal, so I let it fall down my back and the shorter strands curled down to my cheeks and chin. Angela wore a soft black dress and Brennan wore a black pantsuit. All of our outfits seemed to fit us in our own ways.

The priest from the local church spoke Spanish, and that was the language of the proceedings. Angela shifted slightly as he talked, welcoming everyone to the funeral and voicing appreciation for the attendance, but didn't ask what was being said. She probably got the gist, anyway. Brennan didn't blink, just listening to it and translating in her head without pause.

"This is nice of you," Angela whispered softly, talking to Brennan on the other side of me. "Not many people would pay for a funeral like this."

Brennan didn't reply to that, but scanned the audience with her eyes before sighing softly and shaking her head. "Where's Booth?" She whispered back to Angela, sounding upset and slightly offended. "He said he'd come."

Booth saw Ortez turn into the alley and he grabbed his gun from the passenger's seat, cocking the barrel so it was ready to fire before sliding out of the car and closing the door as quietly as he could.

He followed down the alley. Ortez didn't seem to notice until Booth picked up his pace, grasped the gangbanger's shoulder, and shoved him roughly to the side. Ortez stumbled into the doorway of a shut-down shop and was pushed around, his back slamming against the bricks.

Ortez glared at Booth in immediate recognition and his hands flew up to dig his fingers into Booth's shoulders. "You crazy?" He demanded harshly. "This is my neighborhood!"

Booth disregarded this entirely and slammed the muzzle of his gun against Ortez's stomach, sliding it up so it rested over his heart. "You put a hit out on my partners?" He growled lowly, eyes narrowed in anger.

"She's not FBI," Ortez argued, like he thought that that made it okay.

Booth pulled back with one arm only to fist his hand and punch Ortez solidly across the face, where he was still bruised from Holly's backhanded hit. Ortez's head snapped to the side and the side of his face connected with the brick wall he was pinned against. Then he grasped Ortez's collar and pulled up, half choking him, and shoved the gun up against his throat threateningly, the muzzle finding a spot right over the gangster's jugular.

"I never said anything about FBI," he hissed, his fist tightening around the shirt collar and his finger itching to press down on the trigger. "They're my partners, see."

Through his life, Booth had had several partners in several different fields. He hadn't always gotten on the best with them but they respected each other and were always loyal, the way partners were supposed to be. He'd stayed with his buddies through the difficulties of public high school, stuck out his partner's death by his side in the middle of no where in the army when the corporal hadn't gotten down soon enough, and now he was going to continue that record and get the hit taken off of his partners, even if what he was doing to get to that point wasn't exactly legal. They had their differences but they were his partners, even if he and Bones disagreed on many things and even if Holly was convinced she wouldn't be around much longer.

It was not a good idea to get on his bad side - least of all by threatening his partners.

"And if anything happens to either of them, I will find you, and I will kill you." Booth promised with his voice a menacing whisper. "I won't think twice," he swore. He knew he meant it, too. No one threatened or hurt his family, his friends, his partners, or his child and got away with it. "Come here. Look in my eyes," he ordered, before lifting the gun away for a moment.

Ortez started to breath easier. Booth was unsettlingly happy to see the flickers of fear in his eyes when he came back and forced the gun into his mouth, prizing his jaw open and pressing the muzzle of the firearm against the back of his throat. He cocked it so the gangbanger knew it was loaded. "Look at my face," he commanded. "If anything happens to either of them, I will kill you. This is between you, and me, and nobody sees, nobody knows." He pressed the gun further back and the gangbanger retched dryly around the muzzle. "You've got nothing to prove. Understand?" The gangbanger just met his eyes coldly, uncaring, though there was just the faintest, bare spark of fear. "You understand?"

Ortez grunted around the gun, looking away from Booth in submission. "Yeah," he coughed.

"Yeah, I thought so," Booth sneered, loosening his grasp on Ortez's shirt so that the other man could breathe with less effort. "Okay, now if you don't mind, I'll leave first, because I have somewhere I have to be." Where his partners are already waiting.

Booth pulled his gun out of the gangbanger's mouth and pressed the barrel right between his eyes with a final warning look before turning the other way and walking.

By the end of the funeral, Booth still hadn't shown up. I was actually a little disappointed, but I didn't let it show, replacing it with the emotionless persona I had perfected over the years. It really had been a beautiful service.

Jose approached the three of us. He was worse for wear; still battered and bruised, one arm in a cast, the other with gauze around the shoulder, several band aids on his face (not unlike mine, although most of my injuries have healed enough to stop wearing them), but he was out of the hospital, standing, walking, and talking on his own. His wife stayed close behind him but smiled tentatively around him at Brennan, Angela, and I, a baby swathed in a blue blanket and cradled gently in her arms.

"I will pay you back for this funeral," Jose promised Brennan earnestly, distrust from his initial meeting gone.

"Don't worry about it." Brennan smiled softly at the baby before nodding politely to the mother.

"It's my family," Jose protested lightly. "It's my duty."

I waved at his wife kindly before raising my eyebrows at them. "Aren't you leaving for El Salvador tonight?" I asked, trying not to sound particularly pushy.

"Well, my child is an American." Jose spared a fond glance to his son before looking back to the three of us. "He's not going to grow up the way that Rosa and I did."

Rosa nodded emphatically and said a long sentence in Spanish, looking at us sincerely; she thanked us for helping her family and clearing her husband's name before establishing that they'll bring their baby back to America somehow.

I looked to Angela on one side of me. "She says thank you, and that they'll bring their boy back."

Brennan nodded solemnly, her hands in her pockets. She looked from Jose to Rosa. "I understand." She agreed levelly. "One way or another, your son will have a better life than you did."

"Gracias," Rosa nodded to us all, almost tearful. "Gracias."

"Gracias," Jose agreed. He didn't tear up but he smiled sadly.

"De nada." I replied, clasping my hands in front of me and smiling supportively at Rosa. It must have been hard to run so far only to feel trapped once again; and now she was free but at a cost. Still, she was determined to bring her son up the right way. It was admirable.

After exchanging goodbyes, and Brennan gave Jose her phone number in case he ever needed her help, the three of us started to walk back towards Brennan's comfily small silver car. Brennan and Angela walked next to each other, holding and swinging hands together slightly while I walked just behind them.

And then the no-show showed up.

Booth came running up the path behind us and we all exchanged irritated looks before sighing and slowing down for him. When he met us, he rubbed his hands together and offered a smile. "Am I in trouble?"

Angela fixed him with an are you stupid? look. "You're late for a funeral. Of course you're in trouble."

"Sorry." He winced slightly and rubbed his hands on his pants. I narrowed my eyes slightly when I saw the slight stain left on the fabric - dark grey-black powder smeared from his hands to the slacks. Gunpowder? What could he have possibly been doing that warranted gun handling? Aside from a shooting range, but really, even he knows that there's a time and a place. Brennan didn't take the apology, just gave him a dirty look. "I apologize," he tried again. "Everything okay here?"

"Where were you?" Brennan demanded, sounding a lot more hurt than she probably meant to let on.

"Ah…" Booth squinted up at the sun for a minute before looking back to her, smiling contently. "I had something to do."

"More important than a funeral?" I questioned, rolling my eyes, still a bit suspicious. The only reasons he'd have had gunpowder on his hands feasibly was a case. But why wouldn't he tell us if it was a case? Meaning he probably was deliberately keeping us out of it, which meant we'd want to be involved. So it probably had something to do with Mara Muerte. I forced my shoulders to relax.

Booth smiled at me, still self satisfied. "I thought so at the time."

I waited a moment. "Ortez put out hits, didn't he?" I guessed, keeping my voice down so that Brennan and Angela could continue their peaceful talk just ahead without being alarmed.

Booth nodded towards me. "Next time you feel like beating up a gangbanger, make sure you don't let him know your name," he advised, borderline teasing.

I sighed and rolled my eyes, but I was fond of the man's silly antics so I let it go.