Skeletons in Her Trash Bag
Summary: When one of Brennan's foster father's turns up murdered, Brennan becomes the prime suspect.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
A late night visitor pulled Brennan from her bed that Friday night, or rather early Saturday morning. She had arrived home from the lab around 11 pm and had quickly fallen asleep. Now at two am, she stood blearily in front of her door. Disregarding every lecture from her over protective partner, she opened the door without looking through the peephole. When the door opened she was forced wide awake by the image of a man she hadn't seen in fifteen years. "Hello, Temperance, aren't you going to let your father in."
"You're not my father, George. What do you want?"
"Now, now, that's no way to talk to me; I wouldn't want to punish you after so long. Come here and give me a little love." George approached Brennan, quickly backing her into a corner. Brennan felt she was turning into the sixteen year old foster child who had worked in George's brothel like all his foster daughters did. Her superior strength and ability to defend herself melted to her memories of submission. By the time she regained control of herself; George had his hands up her shirt and was fingering her breasts, pulling each nipple hard. "Oh my beauties, my how you have grown." he murmured in pleasure. He didn't notice Brennan hardening under his hands until she had forcibly pulled his hands off of her and kicked him until he was on the ground, flipping him over onto his stomach, pulling his hands behind his back. "Listen to me carefully," Brennan whispered harshly in his ear, "Get out or I will call the police."
George laughed, "Like you did before, remember. Trust me, your partner is a man, he won't help you any more that the Chicago police did." Brennan pulled him up violently, shoved him out the door and slammed it in his face. She sat trembling in the corner feel the filth of a man's body violating her own like she had not in many years.
If the abuses in the foster care system were a plight on America, then the worst of that plight was the Chicago foster care system between 1988 and 1995. A corrupt system had bred an atmosphere where children were sold for money, foster parents putting children to work in sweatshops and brothels. It was much like any inner city before the Progressive Era a hundred years ago, government and police officers turning a blind eye or becoming part of the problem. No one believed stories of abuse, neglect and rape. No one cared.
She was so convinced that that part of her life was over. How was George here? What did he want from her? She should call Booth, she thought, not wanting to be alone in the dark, waiting for George to return. Looking at George brought back feelings of the worst disgust in herself and memories she couldn't allow herself to bring up again. She looked down at her bruised breasts in anger. George was right, she was good for nothing but sex. She remembered being his favorite, making the most money. Her body ached remembering strange fetishes perverted old men have. Her hips hurt remembering what passed between them, her arms feeling strangely empty.
She pulled herself up, dressing quickly and heading to the lab, knowing her chance of a peaceful night's sleep was over. She noticed as she walked out the door that the necklace she was wearing was gone. In her weariness last night, she had forgotten to take it off. Oh well, she thought tiredly. In the grand scheme of things it really didn't matter much.
By Sunday night, she had convinced herself that George was gone. Breathing with relief, she spent an hour at her karate class working on her moves, just in case, she assured herself. Returning home she fell into a deep sleep. When the door bell rang, she automatically assumed the worst, grabbing her bat and slowly peering into the peephole first. She sighed in relief, quickly lowering the bat when she saw Booth standing on the other side of the door. She opened the door to a charm smile as he handed her a coffee, " Bones, we have a case."