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Instead, she looked sad in a way that seemed directed at the situation rather than at me.

“Eight years?” she asked.

I nodded.

“That’s a long time.”

“I am aware.”

Her fingers moved once against the edge of the terminal. “I’m not going to ask why.”

I studied her. “You want to.”

“Obviously.”

“Then why not?”

She looked at me as though the answer should have been clear. “Because you don’t want to tell me.”

I had not said that. Not directly.

Apparently, she had understood anyway.

“For someone who asks unnecessary questions,” I said, “you stop at unusual points.”

Her mouth tilted. “Maybe I’m unpredictable.”

“You are not.”

“That almost sounded insulting.” She pressed a hand to her chest, eyebrows climbing.

“It was observational.”

“Much better.” She dropped the hand and sat back, satisfied.

I should have returned to the records. Instead, I asked, “Why did you stop?”

The humor faded from her face.

“Because there’s a difference between knowing you’re hiding something that affects me and knowing you have something personal you’re not ready to talk about.”

I said nothing.

She gestured toward the terminal. “This affects me.” Then she pointed vaguely at me. “Your family doesn’t.”

The distinction should have been obvious. It had not been.

For years, information had been divided into only two categories.

Necessary.

Restricted.

Talia had created a third.

Mine.

She seemed to understand that something could belong to me without becoming hers simply because she wanted to know it. That unsettled me more than pressure would have.