I don't ask, "We're safe now -- why go back?" Lilah wouldn't answer anyway.
Never answered, sprawling on my desk. Skirt rucked around her thighs, lips open, head thrown back, as the question had been asked a hundred times. By mouth on skin, by tongue that moved within. By fingers scratching history on her hips.
The one thing in the world I didn't know. Why after, when she had the files she needed, skirt straight, hair brushed, she would go. Where she's going, bleeding, now. To him.
I'm Files and Records. It's my job to know. But I don't ask.