Dedicated to the innocent.

Epilogue

Logan Booth's parents had always had this weird saying.

"We love you. Whoever the hell you are."

They thought it was hilarious, and he had always intended to ask them the story behind it someday. But though he had no idea why they said it that way, Logan always knew what they meant. He always knew that he could become anything (except for any kind of criminal, what with famous crime-solving parents and all) and they would love and accept him.

Logan played a lot of different sports. He tried his hand at all the different school clubs and completely owned every year at the science fair. Logan dated a lot of girls. Different kinds of girls. He marched to the beat of his own drum, which meant he was good at absolutely everything. He was the hottest hunk of teenager the world had seen in a long time. He was jock and nerd and a drama kid all at the same time, and made it look effortless. But with parents like his, it was understandable.

But now, Logan Brennan Booth, the Golden Boy of Central High School, was staring death in the face.

Not threatening death, charging at him. Someone else's death, lying in front of him.

The mass grave still felt like death. Though the bodies had been uncovered and moved twenty-two years ago, nothing had ever touched this damned ground to make it anything other than what it once was.

Logan could have gone anywhere for spring break this year. He had been invited to seven different week-long beach parties and on three separate road trips. He was friends with everyone, and would have had the time of his life wherever he had gone.

But sometimes, he took after his mother and preferred to fly solo.

So here he was, alone, in Calcutta, India.

After all the stories he'd heard (once he had been deemed old enough to hear them), one might think that he would avoid this city above all others. His parents nearly died here. Multiple times. But that was exactly the reason he was here. To walk in their footsteps. To see the world that couldn't be captured by his mom's book or by his dad's descriptions. To see what it was about this place that made his mother want to stay, and hopefully to avoid the danger that convinced her to leave.

"We love you. Whoever the hell you are."

Well, right now he was a volunteer. He was an eighteen year old hot-shot with a sense of humility. He wanted to do good by others. He wanted to offer help to those who needed it. Luckily, Mom kept close ties to the organization they'd worked with twenty-three years ago. Apparently she was the only reason it was still up and running.

Logan never had to search for his identity, or a purpose in life. He could be whoever the hell he wanted. And this was who he wanted to be.

This was the place that harbored the love out of which he was born.

The plastic bag full of water bottles he carried was heavy, but he carried it with a huge grin on his face. He loved the feeling of warmth in his chest when he gave someone a simple bottle of water, no strings attached, and seeing the joy it brought to their faces simply to have something clean to drink. Then he would tell them about the food back at headquarters. And they would be even happier.

He could see why Temperance Brennan, though famous and filthy rich in her other life, would like it here.

But he also saw how vulnerable he was. Logan could take care of himself in a fight, but his dad had taught him that it was always better to be on your guard in order to avoid a fight. Down every alley, danger lurked. Behind every strange face could be someone who wanted him dead for no reason at all. There were so many hiding places, and so few options if he had to run.

So, he could see why Seeley Booth, though he was such a kind and generous man, would absolutely hate it here.

But now Logan had come to the dead end he had been searching for. He set the bag of bottles on the dirt next to him and walked over the upturned earth. He sunk slightly, and had a sudden vision of sinking in completely. Grasping, screaming, but being pulled down from Hell itself.

He took a step back onto the packed dirt of the street. It wasn't the first time he'd been to a place like this, where death still lingered. But he had yet to get used to it. It was the one trait both of his parents had, and yet neither had given him. Logan hated death. Felt like running when he smelled it. Felt like crying when he saw it.

Logan turned on his heel, picked up the bag, and returned to the busy street. There were thirsty people waiting for him.

The hands that grabbed him from behind were stronger than the hands of Hell he had imagined. Colder. Rougher.

Was this death? He hadn't even done anything.

"Thank you for making my job easier," a cold, hard voice whispered to him from behind.

Logan fought against the hands that held him. But they were strong. Then he heard the cock of a gun.

"I know who you are," the voice said.

"I'm no one."

"You're Booth."

"I'm not," Logan answered as the cold, rough hand tightened around his neck. It was broad daylight. In the street. Wasn't someone going to help him? He fought against the strong arms again, but stopped when he felt the cold metal of the gun pressed against his temple.

"My father made a mistake in letting them live in the first place. I have a family legacy to save. I have vengeance to take, you understand?" the cold voice seethed at him.

"Look, man, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm no one!"

"Any last words, Baby Booth?"

Not knowing what to say, Logan shut his eyes tight and prayed to the God that his father had taught him to trust when fighting wouldn't work.

"Good boy."

XXXXX

Limbs intertwined, wrapped in blankets, they slept deeply through the cold November night. The phone rang, and half asleep, the man in his late fifties answered it as his wife of twenty-one years held his hand in her sleep. She stirred when he spoke.

"Booth."

"Did you really think you'd make it out alive?" the scratchy voice came from the other end.

"Excuse me?" Booth asked, finally waking up.

"There are only so many lives you can take, Booth," the voice sighed, sounding almost bored. "Someday you're going to have to give some back."

"Who is this?" Booth demanded in his most frightening cop voice. Brennan woke completely, staring at him in wide-eyed fear.

There was an odd rustling on the other end, as if the phone were changing hands.

"Dad?" Logan's voice came, loud and clear, over the phone. He sounded out of breath. Beaten down. Defeated. But brave.

"Logan?"

"Dad, don't—"

But he was cut off by a deafening gunshot.

The phone changed hands again.

"I'm the man who killed your son."

XXXXX

The secrets, the memories, the pain that this city held were something they had hoped to never revisit. They had sworn long ago never to go back.

But here they were, on a hope and a prayer and against everyone's deepest insistences that they stay home and grieve like normal parents. But of course, normal parents were something they never were, and couldn't start now.

They didn't know where to begin. It was a desperate search for something. Anything.

But they were here, hand in hand, to find answers. Possibilities. Doubt. Because what they heard, what they were told, what had been proven by others as truth wasn't necessarily reality. They of all people knew that.

This was not necessarily reality.

This was not reality. It couldn't be.

Thank you for reading. The End. –Jesse Falling