Frustrated, Booker turns on his heel and heads to the kitchen, pulling a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and a glass from another. As angry as he is, he still has the wits to know that drinking from the bottle right now isn't the impression he wants to go for. He's got nothing tangible to hold onto except the glass in his hand and he can't understand why he can hear the Luteces' in his head, laughing smugly at some joke he just doesn't understand.

So he speaks without thinking, "You don't trust me, Elizabeth, don't want to know what I think, that's fine. You're not the first. And maybe you should get your own place, you've been on about it enough and I won't have to wonder who you're letting into my home." He knows this isn't the way to deal with things, but everything in him wants to shut down and his head's about to split wide-open.