The smell of wet paint permeates her nose as she steps through the door that Ari is holding open. The room is bright, natural light flowing in through a large window on a wall that is completely covered in works of art. In front of the wall is a stout, older man who turns at the sound of footsteps.

"Hello!" he greets with a welcoming smile. "Come in, come in. Have a seat."

Ari and Ziva move to sit on the chairs by the desk that the man had indicated to. The teacher makes his way across the classroom, weaving about paint-stained tables to return to his desk.

"I'm Mr. Oliver, but please, call me Dan. You must be Tali's parents?" he asks, extending his arm to them before taking a seat. Both Ziva and Ari shake his hand.

"Actually, we are her siblings. I am Ziva and this is Ari," she introduces.

"Pardon me. Well, it is nice to meet you. Although, I can't imagine why you would want a conference. Tali's a wonderful student."

"We just wanted to meet her teachers, that is all," Ari replies.

"Well it's good to know you're trying to be involved in your sister's life," Dan commends. "She's a great listener and a good artist."

"I did not know she is an artist," Ziva admits. "I knew she enjoyed drawing but I did not know that she is any good."

"Would you want to see some of her portfolio?" the teacher offers. Ziva and Ari both nod, eager for a peak into their sister's life. Tali, talkative as she is, does not usually breach the topic of school unless Ziva asks specific questions. Even then, she rarely goes into detail, which is the primary reason they scheduled conferences with her teachers. They know she is a good student, maintaining A's in every class except English, but it's not the academic aspect that they're worried about.

In all the time that they have lived here, Tali has never once brought home a friend. Ziva finds this particularly puzzling, for her sister has always seemed to be the outgoing type. She never foresaw making friends to be an issue. Not that Tali acts like it's an issue, of course. She has never once let on that she feels lonely. But as someone who loves her, Ziva can be concerned enough for the both of them.

Dan walks over to a drawer and pulls out a large folder with Tali R. written across the top, then walks back over to Ari and Ziva and sits it atop the desk. He plops down in his chair and pulls his wire-rim glasses out of his pocket.

"Okay, here we are. Everything she's made since she started in November is in here."

He opens the folder and the first thing that greets their eyes is a small, letter-sized sketch of a shoe.

"This was just an exercise I had them do," the teacher explains. The drawing is a bit lopsided, but the shading is well done. He puts that aside and moves onto another piece.

"In this I had them experiment with watercolors." It was a brightly painted close up of a kalanit, the red Israeli wildflower. They were always Tali's favorite, and it puts a smile on Ziva's face as she remembers the times when they would run out in the field surrounding their aunt and uncle's house, picking the flowers to decorate the dinner table that night.

The art teacher flips the page again to reveal an acrylic still-life of a bowl of fruit, which is still very well done despite being a bit proportionately off. After looking at that, he puts that aside to reveal the piece under it.

Ziva recoils in shock. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ari's hand ball into a fist. On the table lies a portrait, and despite its imperfections it was fairly obvious who it was supposed to be. The shock of salt and pepper hair and the hard, square jawline is unmistakable. It is mostly in black and white, and the only color in the entire piece is in his eyes, the star-shaped irises glinting gold. Ziva's hand involuntarily raises to fondle her necklace.

"Is something wrong?" Dan asks, his bushy eyebrows pulling together as he notices their visible disturbance.

"No, nothing is wrong," Ziva denies, finding her voice. "Did she say who this is supposed to be?"

"She never said who. The only time she ever talked to me about it was to ask if she could use colored pencil for the eyes. The assignment was originally to create a high-contrast, black and white drawing. I have to say, this is a very well done piece. Very… emotional…" he trails off. "Do you know this man?"

"No." Ari's reply is swift and immediate. Ziva knows that the teacher is not fooled, but he does not press the matter.

They go on to look at the rest of the portfolio, but Ziva cannot stop seeing her father's Star-of-David eyes staring up at her from the page, golden and disapproving and all too familiar.

Ziva was many things, but she was never impulsive. She planned, meticulously, paying painstaking attention to detail. Because of this, she did not leave immediately. She needed a day or two—but no more, because the threat of another client was always present—to figure out how this was going to work, because by leaving her mission she was in essence a deserter. The technique of making it up as she went along would have no hope of success in this situation.

So she planned, intent on doing whatever possible to provide a better life for her child.

That night she went and put all the intel she had collected that month into the safe in the nearby abandoned restaurant, knowing that it would be collected in a week. After that week, she would have one month before Mossad realized she had left. By that time, she hoped to be somewhere safe from her father's wrath.

She would return home by train and contact Michael Bashan, a man whose love for Ziva's mother left his relationship with Eli strained when the two got married. There was no love lost between Eli and Michael, something which Ziva knew she had working in her favor. He was the officer attached to the American Embassy in Washington, the last she had heard, and she was sure he could provide sufficient cover for herself and her siblings. Whether Ari would go was still unclear, but she would have to cross that road when she came to it.

Once this plan had formulated in her head, there was not much else to do but find money for the train. That would be simple enough, she reasoned.

And that was how she found herself rifling through Harim's drawers in the dead of night. He had gone out, to where Ziva could only speculate. Since Kameel refused to let him have his way with any of the girls, she thought she had a pretty good idea of what his activities might be consisting of. Kameel too was gone. He usually did not sleep at the warehouse, choosing instead to let the other, more muscular half of their duo keep watch.

Ziva was closing one of the drawers when she heard the footsteps. Panic flooded through her and she immediately fled, only to find Harim standing at the end of the hallway looking very pissed off. She opened her mouth to utter some kind of excuse, but before she could he began storming towards her. She backed back into the room and eventually was cornered against the back wall and his bed. She could see the vein at his temple pulsating, his eyes filled with an incomparable fury as he stared down his prey.

Usually, Ziva's first instincts were always fight and not flight. However, she had more than just her own safety to look out for. One misplaced blow could be unthinkably detrimental. She knew she had to be careful to play her cards well.

He was close enough now that she could feel his hot, foul breath on her face. Not yet, she told herself, unwilling to jeopardize her pregnancy because she could not be patient. She needed to wait for the right opportunity.

Then, in one quick, forceful movement, he seized her by the hair and threw her to the ground, violently slamming her head into the concrete ground. It had an almost paralyzing affect. Her movements from then on were clumsy and weak and at least two seconds delayed. She viewed the world through a pained, throbbing haze. Through the haze she felt her shirt being forced over her head, and any countermovement proved to be too uncoordinated and feeble to make any difference. She heard the sound of his belt being undone, and she thought for sure that he would have to be added to the horrifyingly long list of men who had raped her.

But he never touched her pants. Perhaps he had gotten his fill elsewhere, but it seemed that ruthless violation was not his goal tonight. No, tonight he was pissed, and he would make her pay for this and the time, over a year ago, that she had dared defy him.

She felt something hard pressing down on the back of her neck. It was his boot, she determined, the conclusion taking an unsettlingly long time to come to. By that time, the first blow had already been dealt.

It was not the first time a man had subjected her to his belt, but it was the first time she felt warm blood seep out of the wounds. She wondered idly if they would scar.

The world around her went crimson as Harim continued his ruthless assault. She did not fight, fearing that any added pressure from the boot threatening her neck could snap it in two. For once she was grateful for her years here, for they had taught her how to block out pain. She retreated into her mind as blow upon blow fell on her young back, drawing blood that ran in little rivulets onto the floor.

She did not make a sound.

Eventually he tired. The blows slowed and then stopped altogether, and soon she felt herself being lifted by the underarm and dragged. The world around her lurched and spun violently.

"Whore," he growled, spitting in her face. She flinched.

Outside in the hall the ground rose up swiftly to meet her, and she just barely managed to throw her arms out in time to save her head from another blow. Next to her landed her shirt. The door behind her slammed and she found herself alone in the cold hallway, disoriented and breathing heavily through the remnants of the pain.

Somewhere far away she heard a door creak open, felt arms lift her up and carry her away. The hard, cold floor against her naked chest was replaced with a hard, warm bed. Someone was touching her back, now, wiping and dabbing and wrapping. Every now and then she would hiss at the sudden pain and her ears would be greeted with a gentle apology.

All of that was really of no matter to her, however, because when she slid her hand into the front pocket of her jeans, her searching fingers were met with a folded piece of paper-her ticket out of here.

She woke the next morning to throbbing in her back and hushed conversations in her ears. Around her stood Esther, Gavriela, and a few other girls whose names she couldn't quite recall. Any exchanges between them halted when they noticed that her eyes were open.

"I am leaving," Ziva announced, pushing herself up from the cot. The wounds on her back stung in protest, but she held back any sort of verbal exclamation that would give away her pain.

"You're in no state to be going anywhere," Esther insisted, but Ziva would have none of it.

"The hell I'm not," she spat back, eyes defiant as she stood up from the bed.

"You're injured—"

"I'm fine. I need to get out of here. I can't... I can't take it anymore." Her voice cracked on the last word and Esther's eyes filled with sympathy.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" Gavriela asked.

"Home," Ziva responded, her hand coming up to fidget with the pendant at her neck. "Thank you, for everything that you've done for me. I'm... I'm so sorry that I could not help." The apology is one that they cannot fully appreciate, but she felt that at the very least she owed them that.

"You're very welcome. It was a pleasure to know you. Take care of yourself."

With that, Ziva David walked away, nothing to her name except the clothes on her back and the small sum of stolen money in her pocket. They were the same t-shirt and necklace and pair of faded jeans that she had been wearing when she entered this warehouse for the first time two and a half years ago. However, the woman beneath them had been drastically and irrevocably changed.

And so she cast away her chains and stepped into the cool morning air, smiling as she was greeted by the gentle rays of the rising sun.

"Let me talk to her." Ziva's words are the first spoken since they left the art room and headed to the car. Ari does not tear his eyes away from the road when he replies.

"Are you sure you don't want me to—"

"Yes. I don't want her to feel like we are ganging up against her."

They arrive back at the apartment building just as the sun is setting. Ziva finds Tali lying on the couch, reading a book. Ari, as previously discussed, retreats to his room.

"What are you reading?" Ziva asks as she takes a seat on the couch, next to her sister's head.

"To Kill a Mockingbird," she replies absentmindedly.

"I love that book," Ziva comments. It was one of the books that she had read many times during the time she spent in Be'er Sheva. "What part are you at?"

"Atticus just shot the dog," Tali replies, her brow furrowing as she looks up at Ziva.

"Maybe we should get the movie sometime, hmm?" Ziva suggests, running her fingers through Tali's hair. "Listen, can we talk?"

At her words, Tali puts the book down and sits up, concern written all over her features. "Did the conferences go badly?"

"No, no," Ziva insists. "All of your teachers love you. They say you're a bit shy, but we can talk about that later."

"Then what…?"

"Your art teacher showed us your portfolio," Ziva begins.

"You didn't like my paintings?"

"No, of course not! You're a great artist, and I can't believe I never knew that. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about that portrait you made, Tali."

And so they breach the crux of the issue, and Tali looks like she's about to say something, but the words die in her throat.

"It's actually really well done. You have a… very good memory. I knew who it was instantly."

Tali's hand reaches into her pocket and pulls out a worn, folded photograph. It's torn along the edges and somewhat discolored, but its still easily recognizable as a family photograph taken almost a decade ago. Ari sat on an old, wooden chair in their old living room, with Tali, just a toddler, on his lap. A nine-year-old Ziva stood next to him, her small hand resting on his shoulder. Behind them stood Rivka and Eli. Their father's face in the picture—the shadowing, the neutral expression—was almost identical to Tali's portrait. Ziva recognized the picture as the one that used to sit in a frame on their coffee table.

"You have kept this with you all this time?" Ziva asks, looking at her sister inquisitively.

Tali looks down at her hands. "Yes," she replies softly.

"Hey." Ziva runs her hand down her sister's back, trying to get her full attention. "Why are you ashamed?" Tali does not reply, her fingers continuing to fidget with one another. Ziva sighs. "You know that you can always talk to me, yes? I do not want you to feel as if you have to… to deal with this alone. You are not the only one who is afraid."

At this last sentence, Tali looks up. Her liquid brown eyes are wide and defiant. "I am not afraid of him!"

"I know sometimes it's hard to admit, but—"

"Ziva, you don't get it!"

"What don't I get?"

"I miss him!" she cries, frustration evident as she lurches to her feet and attempts to flee the room. Ziva grabs her arm.

"Tali, wait…" she pleads, coaxing her to sit back down.

"You don't understand how I feel! You can't," Tali fires back, tugging against her sister's grip. Ziva does not let go. Her hand slides down Tali's arm and grasps her fingers.

"Let me at least try," she whispers.

Tali just shakes her head as she sits down on the coffee table. When she speaks, her voice is low and no longer so argumentative. "He hurt you, betrayed you. And he betrayed me, too, but I never knew it. I lived with him and only him for two and a half years. And he was never overly kind or attentive, and he was hardly ever home, but he was all I had!" Tears are gathering in her eyes now, reflecting Ziva's pained expression back at herself. "He was all I had," she repeats, her voice haunted. "Ima and you were both dead within weeks of each other, and Ari was continuing his schooling in Scotland, and I…" Her voice is cut off by a sob that makes her whole body shake. Ziva's hand tightens around hers.

"I understand," Ziva whispers, voice hoarse.

"I never knew the terrible things he had done. I never knew… that every time he looked me in the eyes he was lying. And even now, I can't… it still has not sunk in. The last time I saw him, before he left for that conference, he was still the father I knew. I still… still trusted him. But then a few days later, you came home and I discovered the truth, and… And it still feels like a different man than our father did all of that to you. To me. To our family. I never saw him after finding out the truth, and…" she trails off, unable to untangle her knotted emotions.

"You need closure," Ziva finishes, wiping a tear gently off of Tali's face.

"Yes." The younger girl's voice barely a whisper. There's a moment of silence before she looks up, meeting Ziva's eyes. "Ziva, I'm so sorry, but no matter what you tell me he did, I… I still love him."

Something deep in Ziva's soul fractures at her sister's distraught apology. She reaches out with shaking arms and pulls Tali into a desperate embrace.

"Never apologize for that," Ziva demands, her voice fierce but semi-choked by the awful lump in her throat. "I would never resent your wonderful capacity for love. He is our father, and I understand."

Tali pulls back, surprise shining in her red eyes. "You do?"

"I have not forgiven him. He has done awful things and I am terrified of what will happen if he finds us. But… I know what you mean. He is our father," she repeats. "And I love him, too." She shocks herself with that admission, but she knows that it is true.

"He used to be different, remember?" Tali's gaze drifts to the worn photograph lying on the cushion. "But then he became Deputy Director and he was home more and he and Ima started fighting… And he changed."

"I can only imagine the pressure that position must come with," Ziva admits. Her father was not a cruel man. Indifferent, sometimes—terribly objective, always—but not cruel.

"I miss how things used to be," Tali whispers. Ziva reaches out and pulls her sister off of the coffee table, guiding her onto the couch.

"As do I. I'm sorry that things could not have turned out differently."

Tali snuggles up against Ziva's side. "So am I. But… at least we still have each other. There was a good long time where I thought I'd never see you again. This is a miracle I never even dared to dream of… even if it means Abba lied."

Ziva places a kiss on her sister's forehead. "Promise me that you won't be afraid to come to me to talk about things like this. You never need to keep things like this to yourself." She can feel Tali's smile against her chest.

"I pinky promise."

Ziva nods, satisfied. "Good."

It takes her a long time to find sleep that night. Her overactive mind cannot stick to a singular train of thought, so there is no serious thinking occurring. She does not ponder the secrets of the universe or her existence or her father's existence. Instead, she simply lays there, her eyes studying the cracks in the discolored ceiling above their bed, and her fingers tracing and retracing the six-pointed star at her neck.

The portrait burns behind her eyes, a study in black and white that ended up being mostly gray—because black and white does not fit her father, it never has.

He is gray, with a tiny splash of gold.

A/N: There was so much symbolism in this, I feel like if an English teacher were reading this they'd have a field day. One more chapter before the baby's birth! Yay!

I had someone ask if the story will end with the baby's birth, and just to set things straight I will tell you that it will not. We'll easily hit 50 chapters before this story is over. The exciting part comes after the baby is born.

Hope you guys liked this chapter! I realize it was really heavy and kind of a downer, but the next few chapters won't be so at least you have that to look forward to! Next chapter will be pretty tiva-heavy.

Thanks so much to nevergiveuphope2, shortcake99, nanoushka, talimom1997, liketoreadnotwrite, Licaro, marsha, EowynGoldberry, cotesgoat, greeny13, ncistiva3, amaia, dvd123, prince-bishop, J09tiva, theroseshadow21, 123sannancis, JG, tintcalad, and aquasm for the wonderful feedback! I am always blown away by the response.