His Wife or Her Grave

The Mourning

Ziva sat on the floor of Tyrell's childhood home, back pressed against the wall, staring at nothing.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. Marcus had left an hour ago to run surveillance checks, leaving them alone. Dust motes drifted through shafts of early morning light filtering through boarded windows. The air smelled like abandonment.

She should move. Should do something. Anything.

She couldn't.

The footsteps they'd heard earlier had been nothing but a raccoon in the attic, Marcus said. “The estate had been empty for fifteen years. Animals got in through broken windows, made nests in the walls.”

Not a threat.

Just her paranoia.

Except it wasn't paranoia when people were actually hunting you, was it?

Ziva pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. She was still wearing Tyrell's oversized sweatpants and t-shirt. The clothes hung on her like a costume. Like she was playing dress-up in someone else's life.

Summer. Maine. Sixteen years old.

The memory surfaced without permission, rising like something dead from deep water.

Her aunt's beach house. The one summer she'd spent there after her parents died. Before foster care, before everything fell apart completely.

She'd been so lonely. So desperate for someone to see her as more than a burden, more than a tragedy.

And then he'd appeared.

"Michael."

That's what he'd said his name was.

Late thirties. Handsome in that distinguished way older men sometimes were. Expensive watch. Sailboat moored at the marina. He'd smiled at her while she sat on the dock, drawing in a sketchbook she'd since lost.

"You're very talented," he'd said.

She'd blushed. No one ever complimented her art.

They'd talked. About nothing. Everything. He'd asked about her life, seemed genuinely interested when she mentioned her parents' accident, the aunt who didn't really want her there.

"You deserve better," he'd said.

And God, she'd believed him.

He took her sailing the next day. Bought her ice cream. Made her laugh for the first time in months.

He was always a gentleman. Never touched her inappropriately.

Just... watched her. With those pale eyes that seemed to catalog everything.

"You're special, Ziva," he'd said on their last day together. Handed her his card. "When you're older, call me. I'd like to keep in touch."

She'd thought it was kindness.

Ziva's hands started shaking.

He was grooming me.

The realization hit like a freight train. All the air left her lungs.

He'd been testing her. Seeing if she was malleable. Vulnerable. Easy to manipulate.

And she had been.

God, she'd been so easy.

"No." The word fell out. "No, no, no."

She couldn't stop shaking. Her whole body trembled like she was freezing from the inside out.

Tyrell appeared in the doorway. He must have been in another room, going through his father's old files or whatever he'd been doing to give her space.

He took one look at her and crossed the room, but stopped a few feet away.

"Tell me what you're remembering." His voice was quiet.

Ziva couldn't look at him. Stared at her hands instead, at the way her fingers wouldn't stop shaking.

"That summer. In Maine." The words scraped her throat raw. "Nothing happened, but he was..."

"Grooming you."

She nodded. Tears streamed down her face, hot and fast.

Tyrell's fists clenched at his sides. "Did he touch you?"

"No. But he wanted to." Ziva's voice broke. "I could feel it. I just didn't understand it then. I thought he saw me as mature, special. Not..."

"Prey."

The word landed like a physical blow.

Ziva covered her face, sobbing. "I was so stupid."

"You were a child."

"I was sixteen! I should have known."

"Sixteen is a child." Tyrell's voice was rough. Angry, but not at her. "You were grieving. He targeted you specifically because of that."

Ziva's chest heaved with sobs she couldn't control. Every person who'd ever wanted her had hurt her. Her parents died and left her. Her aunt kicked her out. Timothy sold her. And this man, Michael, or whatever his real name was, had been watching her for years, waiting for her to ripen like fruit.

She was so tired of being prey.

Tyrell sat down beside her, still not touching, leaving space between them.

"Everyone who's ever wanted me has hurt me," she whispered.

Long silence.

Then, so quiet she almost didn't hear it: "Not everyone."

Ziva looked up at him through tears. "You forced me to marry you."

Pain flickered across Tyrell's face. "I know, and I'll regret that for the rest of my life." He met her eyes. "But I will never hurt you the way they did."

"How can I believe you?" The question came out desperate. Pleading. "How can I trust anyone?"

Tyrell's jaw worked. "I don't know, but I'll spend every day trying to prove it."

Ziva stared at him. At the dark circles under his eyes. The way his hands trembled slightly, like he was fighting the urge to reach for her.

Slowly, carefully, he raised one arm. An invitation, not a demand.

Ziva hesitated.

Then she leaned into him.

Tyrell's arm came around her shoulders, solid and warm. His other hand rested carefully on her back, not gripping, just... holding.

Ziva buried her face against his chest and cried. Deep, ugly sobs that shook her entire body.

Tyrell didn't say anything. Just held her while she broke apart.

Eventually, the sobs quieted to hiccups. Exhaustion dragged at her like an undertow.

"I'm so tired," she mumbled against his shirt.

"Then sleep."

"I can't. Every time I close my eyes..."

"I'm here." His voice was quiet but certain. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Ziva knew she shouldn't believe him. Shouldn't trust him or let her guard down.

But she was so, so tired.

Her eyes drifted closed.

When Ziva woke, the light had changed. Hours had passed.

She was lying on the couch in the living room, a blanket tucked around her. Tyrell must have moved her without waking her.

She sat up slowly, head foggy with sleep. Her eyes felt swollen from crying.

Voices drifted from the hallway. Tyrell, talking to someone on the phone. His voice was low, urgent.

Ziva stood on shaky legs and moved toward the sound.

"...found something. Victoria's files. There's a partner. Someone above her."

Ziva froze in the doorway.

Tyrell had his back to her, phone pressed to his ear. His free hand was clenched into a fist against the wall.

"Who?" he demanded.

A pause. Marcus' voice came through tinny and distant, but Ziva could just make out the words.

"James Keene. Timothy's father."

Tyrell's entire body went rigid. "Timothy's father is involved?"

"More than involved. He's the founder. Companion Network was his idea. Victoria just runs it."

The hallway tilted. Ziva grabbed the doorframe to steady herself.

"Where is he?" Tyrell's voice was lethal.

"Unknown. But sir, there's more."

Tyrell waited, every muscle tense.

"James Keene has a file on Ziva. Going back ten years. Photos, surveillance logs, psych profiles."

Ziva's vision blurred.

Ten years.

She'd been sixteen.

"Ten years?" Tyrell's voice shook with barely contained rage. "She was..."

"Sixteen when it started. Yes, sir."

Tyrell turned slightly, like he could feel her watching. His eyes landed on the empty couch.

Then he looked back down the hall.

Saw her standing there.

His face went white.

"He's the man from Maine," Tyrell said into the phone, eyes locked on Ziva's.

"That's my theory," Marcus confirmed.

Tyrell's voice dropped to something deadly quiet. "Find him. I don't care what it costs. Find him."

He ended the call.

They stared at each other across the dusty hallway.

"I heard," Ziva said. Her voice sounded hollow. Empty. Like something had scooped out her insides and left nothing behind.

Tyrell nodded slowly.

The pieces clicked together in Ziva's mind, each one landing like a nail in a coffin.

"Timothy's father." The words tasted like ash. "He's been watching me since I was sixteen."

"Yes."

Ziva laughed. Hysterical.

"Timothy didn't find me by accident, did he?"

Tyrell's silence was answer enough.

The hallway seemed to stretch and warp. Ziva's knees buckled.

She sank to the floor, back against the wall, exactly like she'd been sitting hours ago.

"It was always a trap." Her voice was barely a whisper. "From the beginning."

Michael. James Keene. Timothy's father.

He'd groomed her at sixteen. Watched her for ten years. Sent his son to college to "randomly" meet her at a party. Orchestrated a four-year relationship designed to break her down, make her dependent, isolate her.

All of it.

Every moment she'd thought was her life, her choice, her love.

A lie.

Manufactured.

Controlled.

Ziva stared at nothing. She'd never been free.

Not once in her entire adult life.

Tyrell moved toward her slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

He sank down beside her on the floor.

Didn't touch her.

Just sat there in the dusty hallway, while Ziva mourned the life she'd never actually had.

"I'm going to kill him," Tyrell said quietly.

Ziva turned her head, looked at him.

His eyes were black. Absolute. Filled with something that should have terrified her.

It didn't.

"Good," she whispered.

And meant it.