My name is Holly Elena Emily Anya Kirkland. I'm seventeen years old. My few friends call me nicknames derived from Elena or Emily most of the time. Holly isn't the best for making nicknames out of. I've got dark black hair and vivid blue eyes, with fringe that never wants to do as it's told. After a long day, my hair doesn't want to be tame, and my cheeks flush with exhaustion. It's a testament to my natural pale skin tone that I've never actually needed to use lightener on my skin. I've only ever needed concealer or sunburn stuff, because I don't tan. I burn. I'm tall and agile. I'm strong and fast and light on my feet, and I'm not the healthiest person ever. I'm not exactly malnourished, but I'm not eating as much as I should be. Not that I can help it; money's tight, and that's all there is to it, my friend. I get lots of exercise to make up for it, though.

I have some scars on my arms. I'm not into cutting and self-harm; I tried it once, when I was depressed, because I'd read about how people find it freeing because the physical manifestation of pain lets them control their panicking emotions. As soon as the razor cut my skin, I decided never to do it again, because it hurt like a bitch and I was really glad I'd gotten a tetanus shot. The scars are mostly from getting hurt; beat up in an alley, falling off of things, getting into fistfights.

It's the bruises that healed. That's what I use concealer for. I've been in a few foster homes that ended badly. The mothers were too scared, too drunk, too stupid, or too cruel to put a stop to their husbands when they beat me. It was never the other children, if there were any; it was just me. I hated it. I hated being beaten by people who were sworn to protect and support me. I've got no illusions about love, be it between two people or between a family. I have none directed towards me.

Right. My existence was a common mistake; simply put, a high school couple got it on and didn't take precautions against pregnancy. I was put up to adoption right after I was born. I don't know who my biological parents are, nor do I particularly care. They obviously didn't want me, so why should I want them? Since then, I was passed between foster homes. I never stayed for too long; the longest was a few years, and that was just through infancy. Once I could walk, talk, and generally control motor functions, I pitched tantrums and threw fits. I was a real brat. I never got myself into an abusive home until I was eight, which was good. Any earlier and I might not have gotten out without permanent damage. I pitched fits, picked fights, and generally acted like a self-centered bitch. I was never really happy with any of my foster families. I'm pretty sure I set the record for 'highest number of foster families for one child'.

Currently, my legal guardians have been my legal guardians for a little over a year. Unfortunately, a lot happened in that time. My 'parents' drove away one day and never came back. My 'brother' enlisted for the army without telling me, but he left me with a fair stash of money and signed a document. With a little bit of computer work, I could copy down the documents of a rent contract and get my own place. That's exactly what I did. No one knows, because it's not exactly legal, but I'm scraping along on my own pretty well. I live in a bad part of town, and it's gotten me into fights before, but I'm street smart as well as book smart and so I can take care of myself for the most part.

I earn money for the rent by working a shift at a nearby bar. For being in a shady part of the neighborhood, it's actually not that bad. For one, it doesn't make me dress up like a harlot. I can wear whatever I like; namely, jeans and a tank top or sweater. I don't make a show of myself. I'd rather wear jeans because I can run and actually do things. I like sweaters because I get cold. Who needs a corset when they can wear a tank top and actually breathe? Secondly, the hours are reasonable. I got a high school diploma a few years back. Despite how troublesome I can be, I'm extremely intelligent. I know several verbal languages, and I'm passable in sign language. I have no college degrees, but I do have hobbies of looking up stuff like law enforcement and science. Thirdly, the people who come here aren't all bad. I actually met a friend here. Most of the regulars ask for me by name; my excellent memory usually lets me just see who it is and then place their order in the queue without even going to see them. Fourthly, it's pretty quiet around here.

So imagine my surprise when a man stepped through. Easily, I picked out the gun in its holster at the side of his waist. Small but effective. Probably standard FBI issue, if his suit was anything to go by. It was pristine and fancily tailored. He had a silk tie and a grey suit jacket. His slacks were black and just covered the tops of his dressy shoes which were both business casual and okay for running. He had a ridiculous belt buckle and striped socks. His hair was cleanly cut, short and black. I couldn't make out many of his features – he was half the room away – but I could tell he had a strong build and a well-defined jawline. He was most certainly in a good position, job and money-wise, and he didn't seem the type to slum the streets of this neighborhood. So what was he doing here? Well, I wanted to find out.

I went over to the pedestal that held the menus of alcoholic beverages, and had a small selection of greasy junk to eat. Fries, nachos, soda, and other stuff that was fine other places but tasted like poison here weren't ordered very often. From my previous thought, you can probably guess why. I met the man when he came to the pedestal where people waited to be sat and I gave him a friendly smile. Just because I act arrogant most of the time doesn't mean I can't be friendly. I'm not really a people person, and I'm naturally inclined toward violence. Thinking over how I grew up, it's not that surprising. However, I'm not a bad person, so I can be friendly to others. Plus, it was bad for business to hassle the customers.

"Welcome, sir," I said cordially. Although my smile was in place, I was sure my eyes seemed dull. How many times had I said this over the past months? "My name is Holly, and I'll be serving you this morning." I would have added that it was an ungodly hour in the morning, but I thought better of it. Who goes to a bar at seven in the morning? As it was, the place was almost empty. Aside from myself, the only other people on duty were a sixteen-year-old girl named Helena who was friendly and fun to be around (but who didn't particularly like me a lot) and a really rude nineteen year old guy named Jordan.

"Are you Holly Kirkland?" He asked, inquisitive. He raised an eyebrow and he rolled his shoulders, trying to appear intimidating.

I backed up a step. Here in this part of town, at this job, it was just common sense that you didn't tell people your surname. "Helena!" I called over my shoulder for the younger girl. Even though she didn't really like me, she was good-natured and cared about everyone, so I knew that she would keep an eye on what was going on so that if something happened, she could call the police. I turned back to the man. "Yes, sir, I am Holly Kirkland, but I must ask who you are and how you know my name. If you refuse to answer, then I will deem you a threat to the safety of my colleagues and will report you to security," I stated solemnly, following the basic protocol for this job.

The man nodded, as if he accepted that this was fair. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a little billfold. He flipped it open. It had no money or cards, but it had a shining badge. "FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth," the agent said. Squinting at the badge for a moment, I realized it had the national seal etched onto the cover, which proved it real and not forged. "Holly Kirkland, I'd like to ask you some questions. Currently you are a suspect in our investigation of the murder of Martin Davis."