Standard Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.

Author's Note: First thing's first. I want to apologize for how late this chapter is coming. And, considering how long it's been, I want to apologize for what I suspect is going to be a let down. You see, it's been almost two years since I've seen Bones and this plot was always going to be centered around one single reveal. My increasing certainty that I didn't have the "voice of the characters" anymore, and that I had a LOT of work to do before I could make that reveal pay off has been what's kept me from writing. But, by now, I'm pretty sure it'll be another two years before I watch Bones again and… I figure that there are at least a few of you that would rather have the story closed – even if it's sub-par – than have it linger open. So – I'm sorry if these last two chapters are disappointing. Hopefully it's at least a sense of closure for you. Thank you – ALL of you – for reading. Again – I'm sorry I couldn't meet your expectations.

The cup was the disposable kind, the type where the waxed paper occasionally leaked and did little to protect the drinker's hand from the heat of fresh coffee. Booth set it down on the table and slid it half-way across to Sweets.

The psychologist did not reach for it.

Bones looked from her partner to Sweets and then back again. She was fairly certain Booth was unhappy, if not actually very upset. To his credit though, she could find little evidence of anything other than determination and professionalism on his face. Still, he hadn't spoken a word to her since they'd met up in the hall to enter the interrogation room together. That wasn't like him.

The situation was admittedly difficult. She found it difficult as well. She was anxious, suspicious, and to some degree worried about Dr. Sweets. She didn't want him to be involved in this murder, but the evidence could not be ignored. She looked at him and her brow furrowed. He wasn't helping the situation, either. The fact that he was dressed so informally and that his expression was so uncharacteristically disconnected made him seem even younger than his years.

Almost as young as Zach Addy had looked when he'd blithely confessed to murder.

"Sweets," Booth began as he sat down.

The psychologist continued to look at a point on the table just a few inches beyond his hands.

"Sweets," Booth repeated, louder.

"Oh, sorry, Agent Booth," Sweets looked up and his lips twitched slightly in a would-be apologetic smile. "I was lost in thought."

"Yeah. I could tell. Those thoughts happen to be about the night that Bethann Morris and Tracy Schmidt were killed?" Booth flipped the case file in front of him open but didn't look down at it. Beyond the one-way glass the recording equipment was whirring.

Sweets straightened up, "Yes."

"Tell me about it."

Sweets gestured with one hand, dragging the edge of his palm against the table as he did so. "It was late. Probably between 2:30 and 2:45. I used to spend time in the woods at night. It helped me clear my mind and think. I had just finished cleaning up at the stream, I'd gotten myself dirty. I was heading back to the house when someone came out of the woods." He hesitated here, clipped, clinical tone faltering.

"Go on," Booth prompted.

"It was a man. He was tall. He… He asked me what I was doing out there. I told him I was just… just thinking. He laughed and…" Sweets blinked and seemed to really register Booth's gaze on him for the first time. He looked down at his hands, pauses growing more pronounced, "…said that we were alike. Then he grabbed my hand. He shook it. Then he left. I remember having to go back to the stream and wash my hands off again because they were dirty afterwards. It wasn't just dirt, it was blood too."

Silence followed his words, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner.

"That's it?" Booth finally prompted.

"Yes," Sweets said. He took a breath and raised his head, speaking firmly once more, "I can't promise he came from the direction of the tree house. But I think he did."

"What can you tell us about what he looked like?" Bones asked. The story Sweets told was almost laughable in how it raised far more questions than it answered. For some reason though, she avoided pointing that out. Something about it bothered her, making her feel more than a little uncomfortable.

"Dark hair," Sweets related promptly. "Dark eyes. He had a beard too, close-cropped. Like I said, he seemed very tall. But, I was a very short kid. He might not have been as…. Imposing….I can't remember anything more than that. I'm sorry."

"Okay," Booth said simply. He stood up with a gusty sigh. "Thanks for the information, Dr. Sweets. We'll let you know if we have any more questions."

"Wait," Bones stood up as well, surprised. "That's it?"

Sweets looked from one agent to another. He finally chimed in to cautiously agree, "That was a very short interrogation, Agent Booth. I know you have to have more questions."

"Yeah, well,"Booth shrugged. "I figure what's the point? I mean if you are content with giving us half of the story, why should we care?" He picked up the file, "You'll be going to jail for a long time, Sweets. That's where this leads. End of story."

"But I didn't kill those girls, Agent Booth!" Sweets leaned forward, a flicker of desperation finally bringing life to his expression.

"Really?" Booth asked, eyes narrowing, "Then what were you doing out there that night, Sweets?"

"I…."

"A lot of houses are built against those woods. What were you doing? Peeping in windows?"

"No, I…"

"Come on, that's what teenage boys do," Booth leaned in now, too, closing the distance between them, "Especially short, misfits who don't have any friends or who can't get a girl to take a second look at them."

"I wasn't looking into windows, Agen-," Sweets shook his head, voice gaining tension and volume.

"Yeah, maybe that wasn't enough for you," Booth interrupted him again, "Not the way you used to skulk around in the halls. You never liked being seen, did you? So maybe you didn't kill those girls, Sweets, but maybe you weren't all the way at the stream when they died. Did you watch? Did this mystery fellow invite you over to see what it looked like…?"

"No!" Sweets' shot up from his chair, sending it clattering back. His eyes were wide, palms flat on the table as if to steady himself, "Booth, I would never…"

"The hell you wouldn't! Whose blood were you washing off in the stream, Sweets?" Booth barked.

"Mine!" the psychologist snapped back, without thinking. The word hung in the air and his expression contorted. There was no way to take it back. There was nothing he could do to stop the shock flickering across Dr. Brennan's face or the tightening of Booth's jaw. He tried to regain his composure, swallowing nausea. There was nothing else he could do. "When I was younger I… had a hard time getting over the belief that I… deserved to be punished for things."

"What sort of things?" Booth asked flatly.

Sweets shook his head again, "Being clumsy, doing something stupid, screwing up. The same things that my father used to whip me for. I'd go out to the woods and …do what he would have done."

"You hurt yourself," It was Brennan, naturally, who quietly stripped all possible ambiguity from the words.

"Yeah. It was a way…" He looked up and felt his stomach clench. There might have been sympathy on Dr. Brennan's face, an understanding built from her experiences with abuse. But there was nothing in Booth's expression but an investigating agent's expectation of answers and determination to dig them out.

Associate?

Friend?

The man looking back at him right now was neither.

Sweets swallowed hard and looked down quickly. Breath. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. The point is that I was out there to take things out on myself. Not on anyone else. I did it enough to have a routine. I had bandaged myself up and cleaned off at the stream. But I remember now. When I got home after that man shook my hand, it was dirty and there were streaks of blood."

"After you got home," Booth repeated.

"Yes," Sweets said quietly and he closed his eyes. He was going to throw up. He was going to faint. Or, worse of all, he was just going to stand there until the weight of their combined stares broke him in half. A nearly imperceptible tremor ran down his arms.

The sudden scent of coffee startled him and he opened his eyes. He hadn't heard Booth move but the Agent was standing beside him now, holding out the coffee that had been sitting on the table.

"For God's sake, Sweets," Booth said curtly, "Take a drink."

Sweets reached out a hand for the cup, unsteady fingers closing around the warmth. Booth nodded in approval and clapped him on the shoulder, once, before walking back to his seat. "Good. And sit down before you fall down. We have a hell of a lot more questions to get through if we want to get you out of here tonight and back home."

Sweets looked back and forth between the uncharacteristically subdued Dr. Brennan and the now characteristically gruff Booth .

And, very slowly, he began to relax.