Disclaimer: I don't own Bones.
A.N.: This is going to be an attempt at interconnecting certain events that occurred throughout Bones history that at first glance have nothing to do with each other.
This chapter is from the POV of a Ghost and we'll be travelling to the past. Future chapters will take us forward into familiar scenes.
You could think of this character as my own take on the Ghost Killer. But she won't be who they said in cannon.
Her part in Booth and Brennan's lives is bigger than you may think. Or is it?
There is a reason why you shouldn't judge a person at first glance. Sometimes what you see, may not be what's actually happening. But then, how can you trust your own eyes? You can't. The senses can be tricked or lead into thinking the opposite of reality.
This probably means I love illusions.
You should also bear in mind I'm not a saint nor a martyr. I'm human, even if sometimes what people see is not the actions of one.
The one feeling I regret, is regret itself. It means there's something that could be avoided, but happened anyway. I'd love to go by the motto of "Don't make excuses, avoid them."
If only life worked like that.
Never knew what happened for everything to turn out the way it did. Or maybe I do.
I really just wanted people to leave me alone. Let me be me and let me work on what I loved to do. Of course, understanding what I wanted to do wasn't easy in a world where everything must have a purpose. And that purpose was money.
My father gave me only one piece of advice in his whole life. He didn't exactly set an example of proper conduct. Well, maybe he did. I learned that mistakes get you killed. As well as double-crossing the hand that feeds you. That will also get a few nails ripped off. Apparently taking thumbs was getting boring.
I was not careful enough. After watching the bad associations my family made, I unintentionally made the one that could be translated into leverage.
Still remember the peaceful days when sitting by the pier was a treasured moment, as it allowed my favorite past-time: people watching.
At first, it was for curiosity's sake, but soon turned out a way to satiate the hunger for something beyond what I had. Letting your mind wander and forget what surrounds you.
I could focus on the way people lived day after day, appreciating life's simplest pleasures.
My favorite spot was the marina. The freedom the sea brought was fascinating, so it was only normal I'd end up stumbling upon her. There were days I just watched her work on her boat.
The determination you could see in those eyes was riveting. But what I craved was the apparent openness. Be yourself even when others don't actually see you. Which was a strange feeling to have, since all I ever worked for was to be invisible.
I had worked hard to blend in and let people think they had me figured out. Not sure when that started. Guess it was always there.
Maybe the mistake I made that day was thinking I could blend in by letting her close. After all, being a recluse was not a good option when also trying to maintain the right social connections.
Don't think friendship was the goal. At least not mine. It's true I went more often than I should to the marina. True that I let myself be more obvious with my admiration. But it was hard to let go of the envy. I admired her as well as envied the nature of her freedom. Her willingness to fight for set goals.
After tricking the devil, I should have known the littlest thing would come back to haunt me. Money, high placed connections and costly interests were my father's daily events.
Someone thought I was too curious. In the beginning, I could tell they thought I was going to tell-tale on them. Of course not. That wouldn't serve my purposes.
I was aiming higher.
However, my interest on their activities spiked theirs on mine. And finding leverage was also their own hobby. I made the mistake of forgetting that detail.
The tinniest attachment is dangerous when trying to appear invisible. If others notice, it's even more dangerous.
And they liked leaving messages.
Messages that said they were watching. Messages that said they could do whatever they wanted when higher interests were in play. Messages showed everyone is pawn.
I surprised myself with the emotions that assaulted me when it happened. There were none.
A pawn is worthless. I has no meaning in itself. It merely plays a part in the game's strategy.
My first message was named Lana Brewster.
A few months earlier
Poker nights were my favorite. It gave me an excuse to watch my father and his friends openly. The quiet juggle of chips and cards played a good contrast with the emotions they were trying to hide so thoroughly.
It was on one of these nights that I realized my father was a master at lying. Even when he had everything to lose, he played like he was winning. Apparently that also applied to his business deals.
Sometimes they occurred at the same time.
Drinking and playing cards seemed to loosen their tongues. So staying in a quiet corner of the house, apparently preparing for college final exams, was not a coincidence.
But that night, I could tell something was amiss.
Mr. No-Name had joined the game with my father and McNamara Senior. A heavy silence was broken by a shift in the chair, a chip falling to the floor. When these three gathered, you could always tell who was in charge.
It wasn't my conniving liar of a father, or even the cold heartless McNamara. Mr. No-Name ran the show.
He had the air of someone used to be in charge. If I were to take a bet, he worked in a strategically placed position. FBI, CIA, NSA. Take your pick.
Which is why listening in, on these particular nights, always brought interesting information.
Often mere details, but valuable ones, on business deals involving their companies. Kestech Transpo Corporation was a key player in moving whatever goods gave them the money and influence to be who they were now.
So when McNamara Junior decided to get sloppy, and draw attention to himself. No one was happy.
Whispers of "something must be done" and "I'll handle this" caught my attention. I prided myself on being a master at manipulation, whereas my father was at lying, or so he thought.
So when I almost gave my game away, I was not very happy. I thought no one ever paid attention to a quiet and invisible girl.
That's where I made my first and, (what I thought at the time), my last mistake.
Mr. No-Name as I called him, was a clever and observing person. He was the first to rise from the table. The others staying behind.
Still remember his quiet footsteps as he walked along the corridor towards the front door. The calculating and almost timed footsteps that suddenly stopped in from of the room I was staying in. The room with the perfect acoustic in relation to the rest of the house.
He just stood there. One hand in his pocket, the other smoothing the already perfectly straight tie. The serious look he always carried was then broken by a smile. At first he said nothing. And I, playing the game of the innocent, just stared, faking a startle.
He just continued smiling as he whispered: "You know, child. You may have a future if you stay out of people's affairs. Your father thinks he knows you. But you don't fool me. I can see it in your eyes."
That was the day I started realizing playing the invisible game wasn't working as well as I thought. A game of tag was in order. Or better yet, a change of scenery.
The life of the wanderer was beginning to sound appealing. But before my plans were set in motion, messages were starting to come months later.
Lana Brewster's body was found.
McNamara was shipped to Switzerland.
Poker games stopped. It seemed Mr. No-Name had played a full house.
As I think about it now, it's interesting to realize that my first killing was sadly not by my own hands, but my fault.
But then, inspiration has to come from somewhere.