“I need it for my work,” he said.

“You don’t have any work.”

“I’m building a career,” Brent snapped.

“And I can’t do that with you walking in here every night counting pennies and acting like you own the place.”

Margaret stepped into the hallway from the kitchen doorway.

She held a damp yellow dish towel, folding it into a tight square and then smoothing it flat across her palms.

“Naomi,” Margaret said gently.