The Jeffersonian, Angela's Office

Angela Montenegro is mad.

She is mad in a way she has not often been mad, and she is mad in way she would happily never be mad again.

A human heart in a box, and a message from a newspaper article. The heart of the operation. It’s a perverse and macabre version of a valentine, and she will probably never feel the same way about February 14 again as long as she lives.

So she’s mad. She’s mad that someone is dead, she’s mad that the package made it through security in the first place, she’s mad that Epps made a compliment from Hodgins into something intended to hurt her, she’s just plain mad.

On the other hand, mad is a lot better than scared. Mad is fuel for getting things done.

And company is a lot better than alone. And since there’s nothing for her to work on right now, she’s insisted on helping Hodgins.

Shaved bone and spices. (GITMO, she decides, is actually probably too good for him.)

She can’t do anything with the bone. That’s Bren’s job. And Zach’s.

But there’s something about the spices. There’s something significant about the combination . . .

Cardamom. Tamarind. Kokum.

Cardamom. Tamarind. Kokum.

Cardamom. Tama—

Curry.

It’s a curry recipe.

Caroline Epps used to live in Little India. Over a curry house.

Booth and Brennan are out the door almost before Hodgins can even finish telling them.

Caroline Epps. A sad little mouse of a woman, trusting and betrayed, sitting across from her at a table in the diner, looking at sketches of her husband's victims. Young, blonde, beautiful women.

Angela is mad.

And Howard Epps is about to learn why targeting the heart of the operation tends to piss off things like the brain and the muscle of the operation.