If the court case hadn't been exhausting enough for Ziva, she had another difficult conversation ahead. The following week, she was set to meet with Wesley to discuss the case against her father.

When she entered the office, Wesley was already seated at the table, a notepad and pen in front of him. He gave her a small, reassuring smile, but she could see the seriousness in his eyes.

"Alright," he began, folding his hands together. "I need you to start as early as you can remember, and we'll work our way forward to today."

Ziva nodded, sitting down across from him. She exhaled slowly, mentally preparing herself.

"Would a file with a lot of my injuries help?" she asked before they even began.

Wesley straightened slightly. "That would help, yes," he said. "But there's no file from any hospital or doctor." His voice was careful, almost hesitant.

"I made one myself," Ziva said simply, her tone unreadable. "Starting from when I was four." She reached into her bag, pulling out a worn, thick folder before setting it on the table between them. "It's in here."

Wesley looked at her for a moment, a flicker of something—admiration? Sadness?—crossing his face before he reached for the folder. "Let me have a look first," he said gently.

Ziva leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as he flipped it open.

The room fell into silence, save for the soft sound of pages turning.

Wesley tried to keep his expression neutral as he read, but it became harder with each passing page. The injuries, the details—some written in simple, detached statements, others scrawled with slightly shaky handwriting—painted a picture he could barely stomach.

He was a father himself. The thought of laying a hand on his son was unthinkable. But what Eli David had done? It was beyond cruel. It was unforgivable.

His grip on the pages tightened slightly, his jaw clenching as he moved through the years. Then, when he reached the sections detailing when Ziva was eight and nine years old, something caught his attention. He frowned.

There were two names.

Confused, he read over them again before looking up. "Ziva," he said carefully. "Why are there two different names in your folder?"

Ziva's posture stiffened slightly. She looked at him, her brows knitting together. "What?"

Wesley turned the folder toward her, tapping a specific section with his finger. "When you were eight, you wrote 'Rivka' next to some of the injuries. And when you were nine, 'Tali.'" He paused, watching her reaction. "Why?"

For a split second, something flashed across Ziva's face—surprise, hesitation, maybe even a hint of regret. It was like she had momentarily forgotten what was inside her own file.

But then, just as quickly, she masked it.

"Oh, that's nothing," she said, shaking her head dismissively. She reached out as if to take the folder back, but Wesley didn't let go.

He wasn't buying it.

"Ziva," he said, his tone firm but still gentle. "You have to tell me the truth. If there's more—if there are other things we can add to the case—we need to know."

Ziva's lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away. Her fingers curled slightly, resting on the table as she focused on a spot in the distance.

"It's nothing," she repeated, but there was something off about the way she said it.

Wesley exhaled slowly. He had handled enough difficult cases to know when someone was hiding something. And he had a feeling that whatever this was, it wasn't 'nothing.'

He considered his next words carefully before saying, "Do you want me to get Tim?"

Ziva's head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing slightly.

He met her gaze evenly. "I have a feeling you might talk to him."

For a moment, she didn't say anything. Her fingers twitched slightly on the table. Then, she let out a slow breath, shaking her head again.

"You don't have to get Tim," she muttered.

But Wesley could tell—whatever she had written in that file, whatever those names meant—it was something big.

Wesley studied Ziva for a long moment, then made his decision. Without another word, he stood up and walked toward the door.

Ziva's eyes snapped to him immediately.

"Where are you going?" she asked, suspicion lacing her voice.

"I'll be right back," Wesley said, giving her a small, unreadable smile before stepping outside.

She exhaled sharply, her fingers tapping against the edge of the table. She had a bad feeling about this. A really bad feeling.

And a few moments later, her instincts were proven right when the door opened again—this time, with Tim walking in beside Wesley.

Ziva shot up from her chair instantly, her expression darkening.

"I told you I didn't want him here!" she snapped, her voice sharp with frustration.

Tim stopped just inside the room, his eyes scanning her carefully. He wasn't angry. He wasn't hurt. He was just... watching. Trying to understand.

"Hey, calm down," he said, his voice even and steady. He lifted his hands slightly, a silent signal that he wasn't here to fight her.

"No!" Ziva shot back, her breath coming faster. She turned away, pacing toward the far end of the room, her movements tense and restless. Her eyes darted around as if searching for something—something specific.

Tim's gaze followed hers, and that's when he noticed it.

The camera.

She kept glancing at it. Not out of nervousness. Not because she was trying to hide something.

She was trying to tell him something.

Tim let his hands drop to his sides, exhaling slowly. He understood now.

"Alright," he said casually, his voice taking on a different tone. "I think you need to take a break."

Ziva turned back to him, her expression guarded.

"Come with me," he continued, nodding toward the door. "Let's get you a tea or something."

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then, without another word, she followed him.

Tim led the way out of the room, walking at a relaxed pace as if this was just any normal conversation. But he could feel Ziva's tension beside him, the way her body was still coiled like a spring, the way her fingers twitched as if she wanted to say something but couldn't.

The moment they stepped out into the hallway, Tim glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Okay," he murmured, keeping his voice low. "Tell me what's really going on."

Ziva looked straight ahead as they walked, but her shoulders relaxed just slightly.

"Not here," she muttered.

Tim nodded once. Whatever it was, she didn't want to say it where someone could overhear.

"Alright," he said again, guiding her toward the nearest exit. "Let's get some air."

Tim and Ziva left the building in silence, the weight of their unspoken words hanging between them. The fresh air outside was a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere of the conversation they had left behind. Without saying much, they found a small café nearby and ordered their drinks—a tea for Ziva and a coffee for Tim.

With their drinks in hand, they walked toward a nearby park. The cool breeze rustled the leaves above them as they strolled in silence. Tim let Ziva take the lead, not just in walking but in the conversation. He knew she would speak when she was ready.

Eventually, they found an empty bench under the shade of a large tree. Ziva sat down first, curling her hands around her tea as if trying to absorb its warmth. Tim sat beside her, watching as she stared into the distance, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her cup.

Minutes passed. Tim didn't push her. He simply waited.

Then, finally, Ziva spoke.

"My father got married when I was four," she began, her voice quiet but steady. "Soon after, my little sister was born. My stepmother… she was never like a mother to me. But still, she took care of me. She was always distant, though. I don't know if that was her choice or if it was because of Eli's orders."

She paused, taking a slow sip of her tea, as if needing a moment to gather her thoughts.

"Anyway… Tali was different from me. She had a softer nature. He never trained her like he trained me. Maybe he thought she wasn't strong enough. Maybe he just didn't care to try."

Ziva's grip tightened on her cup, her knuckles turning white. "I was used to him leaving me in the forest or the desert, making me find my way home. It was normal for me. But one time…" She swallowed hard. "One time, it was different. Harder than he expected it to be."

Tim shifted slightly, watching her closely. Her posture was rigid, her body tense, as if the memory itself still lived inside her.

She exhaled sharply. "That time… was the first time I saw him worried about me. Not that he said it. Not that he showed it much. But I saw it. In his eyes."

Her voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "One night, he woke me up. Told me to get dressed. Gave me a thermal blanket—the kind you find in first-aid kits—and a knife. Then he blindfolded me and put me on a helicopter."

Tim furrowed his brow, his grip tightening around his coffee cup. He didn't interrupt.

"I didn't know where we were going," Ziva continued, her voice distant now, as if she were back in that moment. "At some point, someone grabbed me, tied a rope around me, and lowered me down. I was still blindfolded. They told me to jump. Then I had to wait. I heard the helicopter leave. And then… silence."

She exhaled, shaking her head. "When I finally took the blindfold off, I was completely alone."

Tim could barely breathe.

"For the first couple of days, I was alright. I knew what to do. I had done it before. But then…" She hesitated, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Then the winds changed. A wildfire started."

Tim's chest tightened.

"I found some berries," she continued, her fingers clutching her cup like a lifeline. "I found a small cave and hid inside. Wrapped myself in that blanket and stayed there for days."

Tim swallowed hard. "How long?"

"Five days," Ziva murmured. "Later, I found out I was in there for five days. Inhaling smoke. Injured. But I had no choice. I had to stay."

Tim exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay composed.

"When I finally left the cave, everything around me was burned," she said, her voice growing quieter. "I was coughing up soot. My body was weak, but I had to keep moving. It took me two weeks to get back home."

Tim clenched his jaw, feeling his heart tighten in his chest.

"When I finally made it back, I collapsed. That was the first time I was allowed to go to a hospital. He made up some story to explain my injuries. The doctors called it a miracle that I was alive."

She scoffed bitterly, shaking her head. "It wasn't a miracle. It was survival."

Tim let out a slow breath, his mind racing with everything she had just said. But then, before he could respond, Ziva continued.

"A month later, I woke up in the middle of the night because I heard them arguing," she said, her voice suddenly more fragile. "I snuck out to listen. Tali… she followed me. I tried to send her back to bed, but she wouldn't go. Then I heard it."

Tim felt his stomach twist. "Heard what?"

Ziva's breathing became uneven. "Him hitting my stepmother."

Tim stiffened.

"I took Tali back to bed so she wouldn't see," Ziva whispered. "When I came back… he had a knife in his hands."

Tim's fingers curled into fists.

"He stabbed her," Ziva said, her voice breaking for the first time.

Tim couldn't move. He could only watch as tears welled up in her eyes.

"There was blood everywhere," she whispered. "She was so quiet. Then… silence."

Tim slowly lowered his arm onto the back of the bench, a silent offer of comfort.

"He made me help him," she continued, her voice trembling. "I had to clean up. Destroy evidence. But I didn't."

Tim turned his head sharply. "What?"

"I pretended to," Ziva admitted, her eyes full of something unreadable. "I hid the real evidence."

Tim's heart pounded in his chest.

"But then… then he started training Tali too."

She inhaled sharply, blinking rapidly as tears threatened to fall. "She wasn't strong enough. She didn't know how to take the pain. I always took the hits for her. But one day, he was angrier than usual. I tried to get between them, but he pushed me away."

Her voice broke completely.

"He grabbed her little neck," she choked out. "I will never forget that sound."

Tim's entire body locked up. He wanted to say something—anything—but no words came.

"And then," Ziva whispered, tears spilling over, "I had to do the same with her."

Tim set his coffee cup down and, without a second thought, reached for her.

For the first time in her life, Ziva didn't pull away.

Tim held her, his arms wrapped tightly around her trembling frame. She was stiff at first, as if unsure how to accept comfort, but then slowly, slowly, she let herself lean into him.

"Don't be sorry," he whispered.

She took a shaky breath.

"I am sorry," he murmured again, his voice thick with emotion.

"For what?" Ziva asked, her voice hoarse.

"For not getting you out of there sooner," Tim admitted.

Ziva pulled back slightly, looking up at him with tired, red-rimmed eyes. "You didn't even know me then, Tim."

"If I had known—"

"We can't change the past," Ziva interrupted softly, wiping her face with the sleeve of her jacket.

Tim nodded slowly. "You're right. But the future? That is yours now."

Ziva took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "It is."

And what Tim didn't know was that this—this moment—was the first time someone besides her little sister had ever hugged her. The first time she had ever truly felt safe.

Now came the question Tim dreaded asking, the one that would force Ziva to relive the nightmare. But he needed to know.

"Where?" His voice was steady, though a tightness had settled in his chest.

Ziva hesitated for a moment, staring off into the distance as if she could see something beyond the quiet park. Something from long ago. Then she turned back to him, her expression unreadable but her eyes carrying the weight of everything she had just told him.

"I can show you," she said at last. Her voice was calm, but there was something else beneath it—a quiet resolve, a need for closure. "I need to see it one last time."

Tim nodded, his jaw tightening. If this was what she needed, he'd make sure she got there safely. "But we'll need a police car for this." Said Ziva

Tim frowned, momentarily thrown off by the way she phrased it. "A police car?" he echoed.

Tim allowed himself the faintest smirk, an attempt to inject a bit of lightness into the heaviness between them. "Shop," he corrected.

She gave him a puzzled look. "Shop?"

"The car," he explained, glancing at her with a small shrug. "That's what we call them."

Ziva absorbed this information, then gave a small nod. "Then you need the shop," she said simply, her voice a little softer now.

Without another word, they turned and began walking back toward the precinct. The weight of their conversation hung between them, but Ziva was no longer carrying it alone. Tim was there now, walking beside her, shouldering a part of it.

When they reached the precinct, Tim stepped inside and spotted Lucy at her desk. She looked up from her paperwork, immediately sensing the shift in his demeanor.

"Lucy," he said, his voice steady but firm. "Get the shop ready."

Lucy's brows knit together as her gaze flickered between him and Ziva, who stood slightly behind him, her face carefully composed but her body tense. Tim didn't offer an explanation, and Lucy knew better than to ask—at least not now.

"Got it," she said simply, grabbing the keys and heading for the garage.

Tim turned back to Ziva. "You sure about this?"

Ziva exhaled slowly, then nodded. "Yes," she said. "It's time."

And for the first time in years, she felt like she wasn't alone in carrying the ghosts of her past.

Ziva sat in the front seat of the police car—the shop, as Tim called it—her hands resting in her lap. She gave quiet, precise directions, her voice steady despite the storm she must have been feeling inside. Tim stole a few glances at her as he drove, but her expression remained unreadable.

The road leading toward her childhood home grew narrower, turning from asphalt to dirt, then to a winding path flanked by towering trees. When they reached the point where the car could go no further, they got out and continued on foot. The forest was eerily silent, only the distant rustling of leaves breaking the stillness.

Ziva led the way, her steps sure and deliberate. She knew this path well—she had walked it countless times before. Tim and Lucy followed, neither of them speaking, sensing that this moment belonged to her.

Then, she stopped.

It was an unremarkable spot to anyone else, just a small clearing with a patch of violets swaying gently in the breeze. But to Ziva, it was everything.

"Right here," she said softly, kneeling down and touching the delicate petals with her fingertips. "I planted these. I came by every morning on my run."

Her voice carried something that Tim couldn't quite place—grief, maybe, or perhaps the remnants of an old promise. He watched as her fingers grazed the flowers, her expression distant.

Lucy had already stepped away, her phone in hand as she quietly called in a request for cadaver dogs. Tim didn't stop her. He knew Ziva had given them more than just a location—she had given them truth, the kind that would bring justice.

An hour later, the air was filled with the sounds of officers moving through the trees, the steady panting of the dogs as they worked, the murmurs of crime scene investigators. Then, the words came.

"We've got something!"

Tim turned toward Ziva instinctively, but she was already stepping back, her arms wrapping around herself. He saw it then—the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her breath hitched for just a second.

"Come on," Tim said quietly, touching her elbow. "You don't need to see this."

Ziva hesitated for only a moment before nodding. She let Tim and Lucy guide her away before the remains were uncovered. She already knew what they would find.

Instead, she led them somewhere else.

The house she had once called home stood just as she had left it, though time had stripped it of its warmth. The walls were dull, the air thick with memories that refused to fade. The moment she stepped inside, something in her shifted—an old instinct, a quiet awareness of every creaking floorboard, every shadowed corner.

She didn't hesitate as she moved through the space. She knew exactly where she was going.

The small room that had once been hers felt even smaller now. The bed was gone, the walls bare. But the closet was still there.

She knelt before it, running her fingers along the baseboard. Then, with practiced ease, she pushed against one section. A soft click sounded as the wood shifted, revealing a hollow space behind it.

Tim and Lucy crouched beside her, their gazes fixed on the darkened gap.

"Wait," Lucy said, already pulling on a pair of gloves. "I'll get it. Chain of evidence."

Ziva nodded, sitting back on her heels. Her fingers curled into fists as Lucy reached inside and carefully withdrew two ziplock bags, their contents exactly as Ziva had described.

Tim exhaled, his jaw tight. They had it. The truth she had hidden, the evidence she had risked everything to preserve—it was finally in the light.

Ziva looked at the bags for a long moment, then closed her eyes.

It was over.

Or maybe, she thought, it was just beginning.

Back at the station, Ziva sat in the dimly lit interrogation room, the weight of everything she had just unearthed pressing down on her. She folded her hands on the table, her fingers gripping each other tightly as if to anchor herself. Tim sat beside her, his presence solid and unwavering.

"You're safe," he reminded her, his voice firm. "We're all safe. No one can hurt you anymore."

Ziva nodded, but the tightness in her chest didn't ease. Safety was a foreign concept—one she wasn't sure she could fully trust yet.

A recording device was placed on the table, the red light blinking to life as an officer prepared to take her statement. Ziva took a slow breath, forcing herself to steady.

And then, she spoke.

Her words were clear, controlled. She walked them through the years of pain, the things she had been forced to witness, the evidence she had hidden. She recounted it all with a precision that was almost clinical, but her hands trembled slightly where they rested on the table. Tim noticed, but he didn't say anything—he just stayed close, a silent source of support.

By the time she finished, the room felt heavier, the silence stretching between them.

The officer nodded, stopping the recording. "That's everything we need for now. We'll be in touch if we need any clarification."

Ziva gave a curt nod, but before she could rise, Wesley entered the room. He had been waiting for this moment, giving her space, but now it was time to finish what they had started.

"You still want to continue?" he asked, searching her expression.

"Yes," Ziva said without hesitation. "I want this over with."

Wesley gave a small nod of understanding and took a seat across from her. Tim squeezed her shoulder lightly before stepping out, giving them privacy.

"Alright," Wesley said, pulling out his notes. "Let's start from the beginning."

Ziva exhaled and leaned forward, preparing herself for the final stretch.

The day had drained Ziva completely. The weight of everything—the memories she had unearthed, the statement she had given, the remains they had found—pressed down on her like an unbearable weight. She felt hollow, like she was merely moving through the motions of life without truly existing.

Dinner held no appeal. The thought of eating, of sitting at the table and pretending to be fine, was too much. Instead, she simply mumbled a tired "good night" and disappeared into the guest room Tim had prepared for her. She locked the door, shed her jacket, and collapsed onto the bed, pulling the blanket around herself.

But sleep did not come easily.

When she finally drifted off, her mind betrayed her.

The nightmares came in violent flashes—her father's cold stare, the smell of blood thick in the air, Tali's tiny, lifeless body in her arms. The feeling of helplessness, the weight of secrets buried deep within her soul, clawed at her. She tried to wake up, tried to move, but she was trapped in the nightmare's grip.

And then she screamed.

The sound was piercing, raw, filled with terror.

Tim woke with a jolt, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a split second, he was disoriented, still caught between sleep and reality. But then he heard it again—a bone-chilling scream that made his blood run cold.

Ziva.

He didn't hesitate. He bolted from his room, racing down the hallway. Without thinking, he shoved open her door and stormed inside.

She was sitting up in bed, her back stiff, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her wide, unfocused eyes stared at something unseen, trapped in the horrors of her past. But the worst part was the screaming—raw, relentless, gut-wrenching.

"Ziva!" Tim called, rushing to her side. "Ziva, wake up!"

She didn't respond.

He reached out, placing his hands gently on her arms, trying to shake her from the nightmare's grip. But the moment he touched her, she flinched violently, as if his hands burned her. She gasped, her body jerking back against the headboard, her screams turning to ragged breaths.

"Hey, hey, it's me," Tim tried again, his voice softer now, more pleading. "You're safe, you're at my place."

But she wasn't hearing him.

Her chest rose and fell in erratic gasps, her fingers gripping the blanket so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Tim cursed under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. He didn't know what to do. He had seen trauma before—he had helped people through it—but this was different. This was his sister. And no matter how much he wanted to help, she wasn't letting him in.

Frustrated, he pulled out his phone and dialed the only person he could think of.

Lucy answered on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep. "Tim? What's—"

Before he could say a word, Ziva's screams carried through the receiver.

"I'm on my way," Lucy said immediately.

Tim hung up and turned back to Ziva, who was still trapped in whatever nightmare held her. He took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, giving her space but staying close enough to intervene if she needed him.

Minutes passed, each one stretching unbearably long, and then—footsteps. A soft knock at the front door, followed by it opening. Lucy was here.

She didn't say a word as she walked past Tim and into Ziva's room.

Tim watched from the doorway as Lucy knelt in front of Ziva, her movements slow, deliberate.

"Ziva," Lucy said gently, her voice a stark contrast to the harsh reality Ziva had woken into. "It's okay. You're safe. Just breathe with me."

At first, there was no change.

But then, something shifted. Ziva's breathing slowed, just a little. Her shoulders sagged, her grip on the blanket loosening slightly.

"That's it," Lucy encouraged. "Just keep breathing."

The screaming stopped.

Tim let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

A few more minutes passed before Lucy stood up and walked to the kitchen, wordlessly putting on a kettle to make tea. Tim remained seated in the living room, running a hand over his face. He had felt helpless before, but never like this.

Five minutes later, Lucy returned with a steaming mug and set it on the coffee table. Another five minutes after that, Ziva finally emerged from her room.

She looked exhausted, her face pale, her eyes shadowed with the weight of too many sleepless nights.

Without a word, she sat down next to Tim on the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest. She reached for the tea and cradled the warm mug in her hands.

"Thanks," she murmured, her voice hoarse from screaming.

Tim didn't respond right away. Instead, he studied her, searching for the right words.

Finally, he settled on the only thing that mattered.

"You don't have to go through this alone, Ziva," he said quietly.

Ziva exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the mug.

"I know," she whispered.

And for the first time, a part of her actually believed it.