Ziva sat at her desk. The black case holding the rejected wall samples was beside her, its smooth surface catching the grey light from the window. It looked like a small, sad coffin. The laughter from the meeting room—Sasha’s bright laugh, Lucien’s low chuckle—seemed to have soaked into the very air, a faint, mocking echo that wouldn’t leave. Her hands lay flat on the cool glass desktop, fingers spread wide. If she stared at them for too long, they seemed like they belonged to someone else. Pale hands. Quiet hands. Hands that held beautiful samples no one wanted.
He came to her door. Lucien did not knock. He never knocked on the clear glass. He simply appeared in the frame, a tall, dark silhouette against the bright activity of the open office. He walked in and closed the door behind him
