Tony walked into work, the opposite of eagerly, and sat down at his desk, purposely not looking at the place where Ziva would – should – be sitting. His reason was so simple that it was almost humorous. He would have liked to say "We had sex, Boss!" and leave it at that, let the situation take care of itself.
But the situation would never resolve itself. Ziva was dead by her own hand, or rather, her own gun. One moment she was there, bantering and bickering, and the next she was gone. Tony even remembered the last words she had said to him: "Shalom, my little hairy butt!" And he had said back "Buona notte!"
They had said goodbye, certainly, but it was never meant to be a forever goodbye. Where on that night had things gone wrong? He had driven her home and said goodnight. An image flashed into his mind, and he gave himself a head slap for not remembering sooner.
A boozy night, clothes flying and skin glittering with sweat. Yes, he concluded, they had had sex a little over a week ago over Thanksgiving. As details flooded his mind, he remembered fondly that it had been fantastic sex too.
Gathering his nerve, Tony walked over to her desk, digging through her draws to see if he could find any clues as to why she killed herself. Instead, a white envelope, sized to fit a greeting card, fell into his lap, his name written on the front in Ziva's beautiful handwriting.
Tearing it open, he almost immediately regretted the decision. This was the last secret Ziva had ever kept from him. Ignoring the prickling of tears that was stabbing him behind his eyelids, Tony opened the card and began to read.
My Dearest Tony,
My God. If you are reading this, then you know that I'm dead. But what you don't know is that I killed someone else. We made love, had fantastic, passionate, drunken sex, and we didn't have any sort of protection going on whatsoever. Two nights ago, December 4, I found out that I was pregnant with your baby.
I couldn't handle that. I couldn't get an abortion, because it's against my faith. And I couldn't tell you, in case I made up my mind. Which I did. I shot myself because I couldn't have a baby with a man who may not have loved me, and because I felt betrayed and alone, apart even from myself. I'm sorry, Tony. I'm sorry if you loved me, and I'm sorry that I killed our child.
Wait, I take that back. I know you loved me, but was it my body or me that you loved when you impregnated me? By the way, had our child survived, I would have named it either Caitlin Rose Tali, or Michael Jethro.
I love you, Tony. I always have and I always will.
Ziva