I’m not playing with anybody’s life,” countered Rathe.
“I told you not to have anything to do with Elizabeth Newsome,” barked Cook, his spittle flecking Rathe’s cheek with scorn. “I warned you. Christ, I came close to begging you. But you couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
“I’m not responsible for whatever’s happened here,” snarled Rathe. “I refuse to be held accountable for it. Not this time, not again.”
“You’ve stirred up the s**t and a girl has died.” Cook pointed to the living room door. “In there. She’s dead. Because you couldn’t keep your nose out of someone else’s business. That’s the reality of what’s happened here, Rathe, and if that’s not your fault then I don’t know whose it is.”
Rathe straightened his back, his eyes refusing to betray how much the words had stung. “Is that
