Delilah's finally getting settled in for the night when the knock comes at the door. Great. She's already put in a long day at the DOD; gotten both her kids fed, bathed, and in bed all by herself; and cooked and eaten her own dinner – Tim's portion is waiting in the fridge for whenever he manages to wander in from work – and wants nothing more than to crawl under a blanket with a good book and wait for her husband.

Seriously, she thinks, scowling a little as she rolls towards the front door. Who would even be at the door at this hour?

She's expecting one of the few neighbors with whom she and Tim are friendly – maybe someone needs to borrow a cup of sugar or something, she muses a little sardonically – but when Delilah swings open the door, the woman on the other side is unfamiliar.

Well – mostly unfamiliar. Her brow furrows the tiniest bit and she's racking her brain trying to remember what it is about this woman that she almost recognizes but can't quite place when her late-night visitor cuts off her train of thought with urgent, almost breathless words.

"I am looking for Tim. Does he still live here?"

Delilah blinks, then blinks again, and cocks her head to the side with narrowed eyes half a guarded smile. "I'm sorry, he's not here right now," she explains, her voice pleasant but unrevealing in what she decides is her best impression of a flight attendant. "Who should I say stopped by?"

Though she's still smiling just a little at the woman in the hall, Delilah also makes quick mental notes of the woman's appearance in case she needs to recall it to the police later – thick eyebrows; brown skin; long, dark hair – and of all the methods of self-defense currently at her disposal.

The woman shifts her weight back and forth impatiently and sighs. "An old friend," she says vaguely, and Delilah fights rolling her eyes, because seriously? This is her apartment, it's late at night, and this woman really thinks she's going to get away with playing games. She can practically feel the smoke coming out of her ears – but keeps that empty smile plastered on her face – when the stranger adds, "And who did you say you were?"

Delilah takes a deep breath and lets it out as slowly as she can, because despite her burning desire to slam the door in this woman's face and tell her to go to hell, the more rational side of her brain is really not interested in getting into a confrontation, disturbing the neighbors, or waking up the kids. She clenches her teeth but keeps smiling (even though it is absolutely killing her) as she bites out, "I am his wife, so I will ask again: who are you?"

Learning that she's Tim's wife seems to take the wind out of Mystery Lady's sails, and Delilah watches her closely. Her eyes widen just a little, and her hands slide gently out of her pockets and hang loosely by her sides. Her mouth drops open slightly, and she blinks as if seeing Delilah for the first time. It's a little unnerving, and even more so when the woman says softly, "Delilah."

Smile time is officially over, because now this is just creepy, and Delilah wants to end this weird conversation and go to bed, preferably without worrying about this lady or any of her friends picking her lock or crawling through her windows. "I'm sorry; have we met?" she snaps.

"Unfortunately, circumstances made it impossible," the woman explains. "My name is Ziva David."

For the briefest of moments, it all makes sense. Of course she looks familiar – Tim must've shown me a picture. Of course she's here late – she's on the run from the authorities. Of course she knew where to find us – Tony used to live here. Rationality, though, is quick to remind her that dead women don't knock on the door, and that there's no way this can really be Ziva. There's no way.

Delilah rolls back just an inch or two, just enough to make it easier to get away should things get out of hands. She spares a second to send up a prayer that Tim gets home soon, like, twenty minutes ago soon, and chooses her next words very carefully: "Ma'am, Ziva David died over three years ago. May I please see some identification?"

Not-Ziva sighs and closes her eyes in obvious frustration. "Mrs. McGee," she hisses, "People who faked their own deaths don't carry photo ID. Please let me in. It is very important."

Though she doesn't want to admit it, Delilah must concede that Not-Ziva makes an excellent point – people who faked their own deaths probably don't carry photo ID. Still, though, this woman could be literally anyone, and there is no way she's getting into her apartment without some seriously compelling evidence that she is who she says she is.

Delilah bites her bottom lip contemplatively, gives Probably-Not-Ziva another once-over, and decides that though her plan isn't perfect, it's pretty much the only one she's got – so she begins the questioning.

"What's Tim McGee's middle name?"

If she's surprised by the fact that Delilah apparently intends to host an Are You Ziva? quiz show right here in the doorway, Probably-Not-Ziva doesn't let it show. "He always insisted that he did not have a middle name," she says evenly, "But it is Farragut."

Hmm. Okay.

"Who used to live in this apartment?"

"Anthony DiNozzo Jr."

"What were Gibbs' wives' names?"

"Shannon, Diane, Stephanie, and Rebecca."

Stephanie, Delilah repeats, refusing to let on that she's seriously impressed. I always forget about Stephanie.

"Who was Diane's other ex-husband?"

"Former FBI agent Tobias C. Fornell."

Delilah narrows her eyes at Maybe-Ziva, then asks, "What does the C stand for?"

With a slight smirk, Maybe-Ziva says, "The C stands for –"

A loud clunk, a small thud, and a soft jingle from behind Maybe-Ziva cuts off her sentence as she and Delilah both spin to see Tim standing completely slack-jawed, his long-empty travel coffee mug, his keys, and his phone all scattered and momentarily forgotten on the floor in front of him.

He stares silently for several very long seconds, then scrunches up his face and asks, "Ziva?"

Delilah rolls back out of the doorway, because she's guessing Apparently-Ziva is coming in.