Ziva and Tony found themselves navigating the busy streets in the NCIS issued Dodge Charger. The latter himself was grinding his teeth together in an effort to stay focused on the wheel currently being clenched by his hands while listening to Ziva insist that she'd drive faster.

"Ziva!" Tony cut her off and she gave him a steaming look. "I know you can drive faster," he tried to reason, "it's just that I value my life."

"If you so value your life, then maybe you will drive faster so as not to let Gibbs have it," she retorted, letting out a little huff just before her cell phone went off with a small chime. As she fished in her pockets for it, Tony mumbled something inaudible under his breath.

It was true. In the few minutes it had taken them to get from Abby's lab, to the car, to the streets, it hadn't been difficult to pick up on Gibbs' attitude adjustment. He was furious—no, beyond pissed off, and that was hard to pick up on the usually emotionless man. The fact that he was letting it show was even worse, and Tony and Ziva alike felt like mice under the gaze of a predatory damn lion. They might of well have been, but quite frankly, they couldn't blame their superior. Abby was undoubtedly his favorite and the daughter that had come to fill the hole made by the one that had been unfairly taken from him. No soothing words could fix the damage done, and Gibbs had told them curtly that actions spoke louder than words when Ziva had attempted a comforting goodbye note before departing the Navy Yard. Gibbs was ready to snap someone's head clean off his neck, and all three agents only hoped that when that moment finally came, it would be on the bad guy.

Relief washed over Ziva's face as she realized that the caller wasn't an infuriated Gibbs, but a much milder McGee, who had a word about their location.

"Take a left right there, Tony," was the first thing he said, and luckily Ziva had automatically put the small device on speaker. In response Tony made a sharp left turn, knocking a surprised Ziva into the door on the passenger's side. One Hebrew curse later and they were driving as smooth as possible again.

If McGee hadn't spoken at that moment, Ziva would have been yelling at Tony. A silent Tony was thanking whatever higher powers there were for the interruption as McGee continued. "I can't find any credit card purchases on his account," McGee announced, to the dismay of the two agents. That always meant bad news. "Says he works as a garbage guy."

"The guy is garbage," Tony said rather humorlessly. Anyone that was hurting Abby was less than garbage in his mind, but the analogy fit anyway.

"Got to go," Ziva announced as Tony slowed and pulled up at the curb to a pleasant little street. Without another word she hung up on their teammate as the two agents simultaneously exited the vehicle and stood on the sidewalk.

On the street were three stereotypical two-story houses with mowed front lawns. One, at the far end, had a child's swing set parked in front and what looked like a playhouse and a few stray toy cars and dolls. That one was painted neutral beige that went well with the white of the windowpanes, doorframe and door, porch, stairs, and roof. The middle one was painted somewhat darkly with a dulled teal that managed to match an off-white shade for the details. This house's lawn looked like it hadn't been mowed recently and, without much surprise, it happened to be Ebber's house. The third one, closest to the two agents, had a bright red FOR SALE sign in the front yard and the windows were darkened.

The rain had passed for now, but there were small puddles everywhere and the air smelled of it. The sky was also still somewhat dim, but lighter than it had been. Tony and Ziva made their way to the middle house, where they made their way up the pavement to the house, carefully observing the grass on either side of them. Other than the fact that it could be more neatly taken care of, it seemed as if there was no other disturbance. Once they reached the house they pressed the little white doorbell and after a minute they realized there would be no response. Some loud knocking from Tony and there was still no response.

Finally, Tony shouted, "NCIS Federal Agents, open up!" rather forcefully. Instead of the door in front of them opening, however, the door to their right opened up from the house that screamed of a family. Out stepped a man just a tad shorter than Tony. A pair of keys were clutched in his hand and he was looking over curiously at the agents.

"Are you looking for Don?" he asked casually, getting their attentions pretty quick.

"Who are you?" Ziva asked without hesitation, taking in the man's appearance. He didn't look like a threat, but then again, some people had the talent of just blending in. A dark blue yamacha sat upon his head, covered with soft, if a little curly, light brown hair and dark brown eyes. His appearance got a raised eyebrow as a response from Ziva, and Tony just looked confused.

"Adam Goldberg," he answered as if he were speaking to the mailman. "I'm Don's neighbor."

"What can you tell us about Donovan Ebber?" Tony asked, snapping back into work mode as the two agents stepped down from the porch and over to Adam's yard. He waited patiently before gesturing for them to walk with him and they complied warily, flanking his sides.

"Don's a nice guy. I was actually just about to go over and mow his lawn for him," he said, waving the keys in his hand and then nodding towards the tool shed that was hidden behind his house, where they were apparently headed.

"Too busy to do it himself?" Tony pushed.

"He's recovering from alcohol addiction. Right now he's on the ninth step, and he got in contact with his mother and he decided to stay with her about a week ago. Said he'd return sometime next week."

Ziva, realizing that they were getting some pretty good information from this guy, went through her pockets attempting to find her notebook and pen. It took her only a moment to find before she pulled it out and started scribbling down notes on what he had already said. When she did this Adam cast her a sidelong, curious glance.

"Why?" he finally asked.

"Possible witness to a murder that occurred in the Navy Yard," Ziva replied evenly, and it wasn't entirely a lie. Though where he stood right now, Ebber was more than a witness, but they didn't want to scare the man currently feeding them important info.

"Was it recent?"

"No." Adam accepted this answer and went through his ring of keys to find the correct one once they reached the door to the shed. The keys clicked in the small iron lock.

"Was he acting differently at all?" Ziva asked, choosing her words carefully so as not to alarm the friendly neighbor.

"Not that I can remember. He just worked, came home, ate dinner at our house a few times. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Have you ever heard of an Abigail Sciuto?" Ziva suddenly inquired.

He seemed pensive as he pushed the door open and switched on the overhead bulb to reveal a slightly dusty, organized tool shed. There were lawnmowers, shovels, gardening supplies, and various other things stashed away on shelves or leaning against the walls. Cobwebs littered the viewable corners, the string sparkling against the dark brown of the inside. A small, dusty glass window on the side would normally let in a fractured trail of light, but not when there wasn't any to be shone today.

Adam went over to retrieve the lawnmower where it was stored snugly in a shelf. "Can't say I have," he told them at last, his expression unreadable as he bent over the machine. "Was she the victim?"

Tony and Ziva both visibly bristled and tensed respectively, thankfully going unseen by the oblivious man bending over in front of them in a white button-up shirt and a light gray pair of sweats. Somehow the yamacha stayed firmly on his head and Tony resolved to joke about it later with the resident Israeli standing next to him, who was beginning to relax her muscles. Abby wasn't the victim—not yet, at least, and they intended to keep it that way.

"We're not at liberty to say," Tony stated officially. Adam left it at that, fully respectful of the law and authority figures.

"I have to go mow his lawn before it gets too late," Adam informed them politely, tapping the silver watch on his wrist. He then took the lawnmower and passed by them. The two stealthily followed, sharing a curious glance and standing off to the side as he started it up and began cutting the grass.

"Do you mind if we take a look around? Maybe he left something at your house?" Tony called over the loud grumbling of the mower.

"Not at all, go right ahead, door's open," Adam called back, but Tony and Ziva were already steps away from his door.

They found no resistance from the lock as they pushed open the wooden door. Instantly a nicely furnished house greeted them with extraordinarily colored tapestries and delicate vases lined the walls and floors. A dark wood coffee table stood off to the side and there were stairs leading to another floor.

The two agents took a stroll, informally assessing the house. Tony took the upstairs, leaving Ziva to the main floor. It came to Ziva's attention at some point, though she didn't know when, that there were no photos on the wall, at all, anywhere. The neutrally painted walls were bare of absolutely anything. She thought it to be nothing but a little strange, considering he had a family to care for. Speaking of which…

Tony walked along the hallways, noticing the same thing. There were no photos, no frames, no nothing anywhere but fine furniture and décor. He peeked into some of the rooms on that floor, finding a bathroom, walk in closet, what looked to be a boy's room, and the master bedroom with a king size bed sitting in the middle. It all looked like a lovely family house with a lovely family and lovely people. Adam seemed like a perfectly nice guy, just trying to help out whoever he could and life a happy life, which he appeared to be doing successfully. Finished with his observations for now, he made his way back downstairs, only to meet Ziva who was emerging from the dining room.

"Anything?" she asked.

"Family's not here, but the rooms are all set up," he explained the major parts of his findings.

"Likewise. The table is set. There is a chair with books piled on top."

"For a kid," Tony mused.

"Also…" Ziva started to add the small detail she had left out. It didn't seem significant, but it was worth sharing. "There were no photos."

Tony looked at her curiously before agreeing with a puzzled nod. They glanced around the entrance as if expecting a picture to appear out of nowhere, which didn't happen.

"Weird for a family guy," Tony commented absently. He received a shrug in response from Ziva. "Let's get his number and get back to Gibbs."

Back at the Navy Yard, Ziva was relaying the notes she had scribbled down to a patient duo consisting of Gibbs and McGee, the four of them in total huddled together in a small meeting. Gibbs' expression stayed impassive while McGee would give the occasional nod, purse of the lips, or furrowing of the eyebrows.

"No pictures?" he queried, obviously riddled and not bothering to hide it.

"Weird," Gibbs commented in a manner much like Tony's had been earlier. "And he didn't recognize Abbs?"

"No, boss," Tony supplied.

"McGee, find his mother," Gibbs ordered strictly, turning his icy blue stare back onto the agent. He scrambled to get back behind his desk and perform a very thorough search on Ebber's family. With McGee's talented fingers and computer smarts it didn't take long before a few results came up, which McGee promptly displayed on the plasma.

"Heather Ebber," he informed them, but his voice trailed off as he continued to read the information on the screen. "Are you sure Adam said that Ebber visited his mother?"

"Yes, why?" Ziva turned around to face him.

"Well, she's been dead for three years."

Her body was clenching painfully as it attempted in vain to rid her body of the impenetrable cold that had seeped through her skin. She couldn't see, but she could feel her teeth painfully clattering together, shaking her skull and pounding it into a throbbing headache. Wherever her hands were they were void of feeling, completely numb, and she had no idea if they even existed anymore. After a few moments she did feel a shaky finger timidly come in contact with what she assumed to be her palm and she calmed a bit.

Everything was a cold black, one that did nothing to appease her conditions. She kept up with the movement in her hands, knowing that she had to keep the circulation going because wherever the hell she was, it was damn cold, and that was the understatement of the decade. After deciding that she could feel her numb body enough to move, she tried, only to feel restrained and fall back—hard—against something. It knocked the wind out of her, whatever was left, for a moment and she took a deep breath, only to feel the iciness and the reminder that her headache was still there.

Nothing was registering in her mind anymore except naturally the fact that she was cold. Later, she'd credit that sense to the natural human instinct that survival came first, and that was on the forefront of her mind. It would also later alarm her, once she had properly regained her senses, that she was solely focused on survival, because normally in her lab, she was anything but.

A feeling cataloged somewhere in her mind, one that was extremely uncomfortable. It took a little too long for her to find where it was coming from, because as soon as she did, it carried out. She couldn't help but sneeze loudly into the blackness, jerking her head forward only to have it pulled back roughly by something. It banged shockingly against something even colder, if that was possible, and firm. Mercifully, it put her back into a state where pain was no longer felt and she could be at peace, even temporarily.

With the loud sound her head made when hitting the metal table attracted attention. A man, his silhouette against a shadowy stone wall, appeared scrawny, though she couldn't see. Of course she couldn't, he had made sure of that. How utterly stupid she was, wasn't she? Yes, yes she was, and he took delight from that answer.

His shadow moved rather quietly over to her still, chilled form, and he bent down in her face. Not casually, not degradingly, but triumphantly. Even though he knew his words would be falling on deaf ears, he pushed them out to be heard by whoever cared. "I hate you, Abigail Sciuto."

Satisfied, he made his exit.

This chapter has not been edited, didn't have time, so I apologize for any typos or strangely worded sentences or repetitiveness. .