By the time he and Cook had gone back inside from the garden, the Newsomes had left the party. Andrea Cook was less than impressed that her husband had not been around to say goodbye, but Cook had shrugged off the admonishments with a roll of his eyes and the sharp fizz of a new bottle of beer being opened. Rathe had permitted himself no more to drink and he had made his excuses. At the end of the driveway, Cook had issued a reminder to forget the Newsome woman and her claims, advising Rathe to turn his mind to something more profitable.
“Like opera?” Rathe had quipped.
“If that’s your bag,” Cook had grinned, turning his back and walking away.
But Rathe’s mind was not for ignoring the possibility that the woman was in danger. He found it impossible not to think that, if he ignored her a
