"Sierra, I am the father you were looking for." Agent Gibbs says. I nod. I had suspected as much. We have the same eyes, though mine a little bluer and a bit brighter, we also had the same last name. How could we not be related? "Father." I say. I stand and walk out of the room. It's not appropriate for me to slap him here in his place of work. "Sierra wait. We are not through with questioning you." Ziva says. "Yeah? Well I'm through with you." I say, walking toward the elevator. I get to it and press the down button. It dings and I step inside. Before I can even press the first floor button my father jumps inside the elevator.
"What are you doing?" He asks me. "Leaving." I say. "Oh? And where will you go?" He asks. "It's none of your concern." I say, rather rudely. "It is my concern I am your father!" He yells. "Well you sure as hell have never acted like one!" I scream. He presses the red button on the elevator and it stops and the lights dim a bit. "I didn't even know you existed, until this morning." He says. "You're lying. Mom wrote you hundreds of letters, I watched her send them out." I say. "Sierra I swear to God I didn't ever get one letter from your mother." He says, looking right into my eyes.
I don't know if I should believe him. It looks like I don't have a choice. "Stay at my desk." He says as we walk back to his office. He shows me to his desk. "Don't touch anything." He says. He walks back up the stairs. I sit in his chair. The other agents are staring at me. "A picture lasts longer." I say without looking up at them. I hear them all turn back to what they were doing. "Freaky." I hear agent DiNozzo say. "What was that?" I ask looking up at him. "I just said its freak how much like Gibbs you are." He says. "I am Gibbs." I say. He smirks. "That's exactly something he would say." He says. "If you don't mind me asking how old are you?" He asks. "I do mind, and I'm 17." I say. I flip my straight blonde hair over my shoulder and dig for a piece of paper in my dad's desk drawer. I eventually find one and a pencil.
I sketch the scene of last night exactly. I have a photographic memory, so I remember it exactly. It takes almost a whole pack of printer paper to sketch each scene, but I finally finish. I put the pencil in my mouth as I look at them. I sign my name at the bottom of each piece of paper. I take my father's tape roll and tape the papers together, making a giant poster of last night. I take a hand full of tacks and the poster to the bulletin board in the center of the desks. I pin the poster up. I feel their eyes on me again. I take a pen and put the times that I knew on the picture it went with.
"What are you doing?" Ziva asks. "Come stand over here." I say. "All of you." I add. They all 3 come to where I'm standing. "Do you see the position in which the man landed after being shot?" I ask, pointing to where I drew him falling and then landing. They nod. "He landed at an angle that would suggest he had been shot from the side, but the man was standing directly in front of him. I don't know where the shot wound was in his body, but If the man that took the money from him was standing in front of him, then how is it possible that he is the same person who shot him and he fell about 30 degrees left of where he should have fallen if he was shot from the front?" I ask them. Their facial expressions change from understanding to confusion. The man couldn't have been shot by the man standing in front of him.