The plane hummed steadily, carrying Ziva toward Boston.
She couldn't stop reading the letter.
The paper was soft from being folded and unfolded so many times. The ink slightly smudged where her thumb had traced over the words.
If you're reading this, James is dead. Good.
Only someone who knew him would write that. The hatred was visceral. Personal.
But James had files on Elise. Photos. Surveillance logs. He could have studied her handwriting. Could have forged this entire thing as some final trap from beyond the grave.
Except he was dead.
She'd killed him.
Or tried to.
Someone else had finished the job.
Ziva's phone buzzed. She pulled it out.
Tyrell: Landed safely?
She typed back: Yes. Tracking still on?
Tyrell: Always. Be careful.
The care in his messages made her chest ache
